THE 


POEMS    AND    PLAYS 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


NEW   YORK 
WORTHINGTON   CO.,  747  BROADWAY 

1890 


CONTENTS. 


fAOB 

MEMOIR        ^        «..        ...        ...        ...        ,„        ...  v 

POEMS. 

THE  TRAVELLER  :  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society  ...        ..._*.! 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.     First  printed  in  1769...        M        ...  lo 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Clown's  Reply.     1753 ..        «.        ...  30 

Stanzas  on  the  Taking  of  Quebec.     1759     30 

A  Prologue  written  and  spoken  by  the  Poet  Laberius,  a  Roman  knight, 

whom  Caesar  forced  upon  the  stage.     Preserved  by  Macrobius.     1759  31 

The  Double  Transformation.     A  Tale.     1765         32 

A  New  Simile  in  the  manner  of  Swift.     1765          ^.         35 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bedchamber        37 

The  Gift.     To  Iris,  in  Bow  Street,  Covent  Garden.     Imitated  from  the 

French        _         *.         38 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell           ...         M         ... 38 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon    .~         ...         ~.         .~.         ...         ...         ...  39 

THE  HERMIT;  a  Ballad.     1765 ~.         39 

THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON  ;   a  Poetical  Epistle  to  Lord  Clare. 

1765           45 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog.     From  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  "         _         49 

EPILOGUES  AND  PROLOGUES. 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  "  The  Sisters  " $o 

Epilogue  to  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"     Spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and 

MissCatley            5? 

An  Epilogue.     Intended  for  Mrs.  Bulkley 55 

Prologue  to  "Zobeide."      A  Tragedy.     Written  by  Joseph  Cradock ; 

acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden,  1772      -...._  56 


2230795 


COVTZNTS. 


PAGB 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes,  in  the  character  of  Harlequin,  at  his 

Benefit        „         57 

The  Logicians  Refuted.     In  imitation  of  Dean  Swift        w 

An  Elegy  on  the  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize        61 

On  a  Beautiful  Youth  Struck  Blind  by  Lightning.     Imitated  from  the 

Spanish       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...        ...        ...         ...  f>2 

On  a  Beautiful  Youth  Struck  Blind  by  Lightning    ...         ...        ...         ...  62 

A  Sonnet            ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  (-2 

Song  from  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."    On  Woman        63 

Song.  Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  but  omitted  because  the  actress  who  played  Miss  Hard- 
castle  did  not  sing...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  63 

RETALIATION.     Printed  in  1774,  after  the  author's  death       63 

Postscript           ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  69 

Burlesque  Elegy  on  a  Right  Honourable  Person.     From  the  "  Citizen  of 

the  World"            70 

On  the  Death  of  the  Right  Honourable ...         ...         ...          ...  70 

Answer  to  an  Invitation  to  Dinner.     This  is  a  Poem  !   this  is  a  copy  of 

Verses          '.          ...          71 

Answer  to  an  Invitation  to  Pass  the  Christmas  at  Barton 73 

On  St  eing  a  Lady  Perform  in  a  certain  character    ...         ...         ...         ...  75 

Lines   attributed  to  Goldsmith.     These  Lines  appeared   in  the  Morning 

Advertiser  of  April  3rd,  1800        ...         75 

Birds.     From  the  Latin  Lines  of  Addison  (Spectator,  412) 76 

Translation  of  a  South  American  Ode           76 

From  Scarron    ...         ...         ...         ...        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  77 

From  the  Latin  of  Vida           ...         77 

THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  her  late 
Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales.  Spoken  an<1  Sung 
in  the  Great  Roc  m  in  Soho  Square,  Thursday,  the  2Oth  of  February, 

1772             _         77 

AN  ORATORIO.    1720     _        _        ...        «.        .„        86 


PLAYS. 

THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN,    A  Comedy     ...        98 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER ;   or,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night.     A 

Comedy      ...         ...         , 164 


MEMOIR  OE  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


LIVER  GOLDSMITH,  — born  November  29^ 
1728,  at  Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Ferney,  county 
Longford,  Ireland, — was  the  second  son  of  the 
Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  and  Annie,  daughter  oi 
the  Rev.  Oliver  Jones,  master  of  the  diocesan  school  at 
Elphin.  Oliver's  parents  resided  for  some  time  after  their 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Goldsmith's  uncle,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green, 
at  that  time  Rector  of  Kilkenny-West  At  his  death, 
Charles  Goldsmith  succeeded  him  in  his  benefice.  The 
poor  clergyman  had  five  children,  and  having  taxed 
his  slender  means  very  heavily,  in  order  to  bestow  a 
classical  education  on  his  eldest  son,  Henry  (whom  he 
intended  for  the  church),  he  was  unable  to  bestow  the 
same  amount  of  cultivation  on  the  genius  of  his  gifted 
second  son ;  and  Oliver  —  destined  to  earn  his  future 
livelihood  in  a  merchant's  office  —  was  accordingly  sent 
to  a  kind  of  hedge  school  in  the  parish,  where  he  was 
taught  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  by  the  village 
schoolmaster ;  an  old  soldier  who  had  been  quarter-master 
in  the  army  in  Queen  Anne's  days,  aad  had  fought  ig 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Spain  during  the  wars  of  the  Spanish  Succession,  under 
the  chivalrous  and  romantic  Earl  of  Peterborough.  Often, 
when  lessons  were  over,  this  singular  pedagogue  enter- 
tained his  young  pupils  with  stories  of  those  days  of  wild 
adventure  and  heroic  daring.  Oliver's  vivid  imagination 
kincfled  at  these  recitals;  and  the  love  of  adventure  and 
excitement  thus  instilled  into  his  childish  mind  tinged  all 
his  after  life.  Doubtless,  pleasant  memories  of  his  first 
teacher  inspired  the  charmingly  playful  description  of  the 
schoolmaster  in  the  "  Deserted  Village." 

At  the  age  of  seven  or  eight  years,  Oliver  attempted 
to  write  poetry,  and  would  scribble  verses  which  he  after- 
wards burnt ;  but  his  mother  detected  in  them  the  germ  of 
his  future  powers,  and  pleaded  hard  that  he  might  receive 
better  instruction.  He  was  therefore  placed  under  the 
care  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Griffin,  of  Elphin,  as  a  daily 
pupil,  residing  at  the  same  time  at  the  house  of  his 
uncle,  John  Goldsmith,  of  Ballyoughton,  near  that  town. 
An  incident  occurred  at  this  time  which  changed  the 
future  career  of  the  young  genius.  Mr.  Goldsmith  was 
entertaining  a  juvenile  party  at  his  house,  and  Oliver 
was  desired  to  dance  a  hornpipe;  a  youth  playing  the 
violin  for  his  performance.  The  poor  child  had  only 
just  recovered  from  the  small-pox,  with  which  he  was 
much  marked,  and  his  figure  was  comically  short  and 
thick.  The  musician  compared  him  to  ^Esop  dancing,  and 
pleased  with  the  comparison,  harped  on  it,  till  Olivei 
suddenly  stopped  short  in  the  dance  and  retorted  :— 

"  Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying ; 
'See  ^Esop  dancing  and  his  monkey  playing.'* 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  «ii 

His  uncles  —  Messrs.  Contarine  and  Green — who  were 
present,  were  so  much  struck  with  the  precocious  wit  of 
the  boy  that  they  induced  his  father  to  alter  his  intentions 
regarding  him,  offering  to  bear  the  greater  portion  of  his 
expenses,  if  Mr.  Goldsmith  would  let  him  study  for  one  of 
the  learned  professions,  instead  of  putting  him  into  an  office. 
Oliver  was  in  consequence  removed  to  the  school  of  Athlone, 
where  he  remained  for  two  years  under  the  care  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Campbell.  On  this  gentleman  resigning  the  master- 
ship from  ill  health,  the  boy  was  removed  to  the  Rev. 
Patrick  Hughes's  school  at  Edgeworthstown,  county 
Longford ;  and  of  this  tutor's  learning  and  goodness 
he  often  spoke  in  after  years  with  respect  and  grati- 
tude. 

In  June,  1744,  Oliver  was  sent  to  Dublin,  and  entered 
Trinity  College  as  a  Sizar.  His  tutor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilder, 
one  of  the  Fellows,  was  a  man  of  savage  temper  and  a 
great  disciplinarian.  The  thoughtless,  gay,  and  social  lad 
of  eighteen  inspired  this  man  with  a  dislike  which  he  mani- 
fested on  every  occasion.  One  evening,  Goldsmith  had 
invited  some  of  his  young  acquaintances  of  both  sexes  to 
a  supper  and  dance  in  his  room.  The  tutor  entered  in  the 
midst  of  this  out-of-place  revelry,  and  not  only  addressed 
the  harshest  invectives  to  the  thoughtless  Sizar,  but 
actually  inflicted  corporal  punishment  on  him  in  his  friends' 
presence.  The  sensitive  poet  was  wounded  to  the  soul. 
After  so  terrible  a  disgrace,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  meet 
his  acquaintances  again,  and  he  d^" 
Dublin  and  seek  his  fortune  in 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


He  disposed  of  his  books  and  left  the  College,  but 
lingered  in  Dublin  till  he  had  only  a  shilling  left  in  his 
pocket.  On  this  shilling  he  subsisted  (he  affirmed  himself), 
for  three  days,  and  then  had  to  sell  great  part  of  the 
clothes  he  wore.  So  terrible  was  the  want  to  which  he  was 
at  length  reduced  that  for  four  and  twenty  hours  he  had 
no  food,  and  thought  a  handful  of  grey  peas  which  a  giri 
gave  him  at  a  wake,  a  delicious  repast. 

His   spirit   lowered   by   suffering,   the   thoughts   of  the 
young  man — prodigal   like — reverted    to    his   home   from 
which  he  was  not  far  distant.     He  managed  to  send  for 
his   brother   Henry,  who  at  once  obeyed  the   summons  ; 
comforted,    fed   and   clothed    him,   and   finally   took   hin? 
back  to  College,  where  he  effected  a  hollow  reconciliation 
between  Oliver  and   his  tutor.     The  dissensions  between 
Mr.    Wilder   and   young    Goldsmith   had   an   unfortunate 
effect  on  the  studies  of  the  pupil.     He  was  not,  in  conse- 
quence, admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  till 
February,  1749, — two  years  after  the  regular  time.     Never- 
theless, Goldsmith  showed  no  lack  of  ability,  according  to 
the  testimony  of  his  celebrated  fellow  student,  Edmund 
Burke.      Archdeacon   Rearing — Senior  Fellow  of  Trinity 
College — asserted  that  Goldsmith  obtained  a  premium  at 
a  Christmas  examination  for  being  first  in  literary  merit. 
He  was   also  elected  an  exhibitioner  on   the    foundation 
of  Erasmus  Smyth,  June  15,  1747. 

In  1750,  soon  after  he  had  taken  his  degree,  his  excel- 
lent father  died.     Goldsmith  preserved  a  tender  recollection 

of  this  good  man,  and  has  immortalised,  his  virtues  in  the 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


exquisite  portrait  of  the  "  Village  Preacher"  in  the  "  Deserted 
Village."  The  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith  was  also  the  origi- 
nal of  the  "  Man  in  Black,"  in  the  "  Citizen  of  the 
World."  Mr.  Contarine  endeavoured  to  supply  the  loss  of 
Oliver's  father,  and  urged  him  to  take  holy  orders.  But 
the  poet  had  no  vocation  for  the  church,  and  probably 
felt  but  little  regret  when  Dr.  Synge,  Bishop  of  Elphin, 
refused  to  ordain  him,  ostensibly  on  account  of  his  youth 
— probably  because  he  found  him  ignorant  of  theology, 
or  had  heard  of  his  freaks  at  College.  His  uncle  then 
procured  him  a  situation  as  tutor  in  a  private  family,  where 
he  continued  a  year,  but  having  by  that  time  saved  thirty 
pounds  and  become  weary  of  the  monotonous  thraldom  of 
his  position,  he  purchased  a  good  horse  and  suddenly  left 
the  country.  At  the  end  of  six  weeks,  however,  he  reappeared 
at  his  mother's  house,  mounted  on  a  miserable  little  horse, 
which  he  called  Fiddleback.  Mrs.  Goldsmith  was  greatly 
displeased  with  her  erratic  son,  but  his  brothers  and  sisters 
interfered  in  his  behalf,  and  reconciled  her  to  him.  He 
then  told  his  story.  He  had  gone  to  Cork,  sold  his  horse, 
and  taken  his  passage  to  America  ;  but  the  winds  proving 
contrary  for  three  weeks,  he  had  started  on  an  excursion 
into  the  country.  That  very  same  day  the  wind  veered 
round  to  fair,  and  the  ship  sailed  without  him.  He 
remained  at  Cork  till  he  had  only  £2  55.  6d.  left,  then  he 
bought  Fiddleback  for  forty  shillings  and  started  for  his 
home — a  journey  of  150  miles — with  only  55.  6d.  in  his 
pocket.  On  the  road  not  far  from  Cork,  resided  a  College 
(riend  oi  his,  who  had  often  urged  Oliver  to  vi§it  him 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


spend  a  summer  at  his  house.  Thither,  therefore,  Gold- 
smith, confiding  in  the  young  man's  former  professions, 
resolved  to  proceed,  hoping  that  he  should  be  able  to 
borrow  enough  money  to  supply  the  wants  of  himself  and 
his  steed  on  their  homeward  journey.  Feeling  certain  of 
this  aid,  he  gave  away  half  his  stock  of  money  to  a  poor 
woman  whom  he  met  on  his  road ;  touched  by  her  story 
of  "  eight  starving  children  and  a  husband  in  jail  for  rent." 
At  last  the  house  of  his  acquaintance  appeared  in  sight 
and  cheered  the  traveller's  spirits.  He  found  the  master  of  it 
at  home,  just  recovering  from  a  severe  illness.  He  received 
Oliver  with  much  warmth,  and  inquired  what  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance had  brought  him  to  that  place.  The  simple,  warm- 
hearted youth  at  once  told  his  tale  ;  but  as  he  proceeded 
his  host's  countenance  and  manner  changed.  He  sighed 
deeply  and  walked  about  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands  in 
solemn  silence,  till  Oliver  paused  ;  when  he  said  that  he  re- 
gretted he  had  no  means  of  entertaining  visitors,  as  having- 
been  recently  very  ill,  he  lived  on  slops  and  a  milk  diet,  but 
that  if  Mr.  Goldsmith  pleased  to  partake  of  invalid  fare  he 
should  be  welcome.  The  traveller,  who  had  fasted  the 
whole  day,  had  little  choice.  By  and  by  an  old  woman 
appeared  and  spread  the  table,  on  which  she  placed  a  bowl 
of  sago  for  her  master,  and  a  porringer  of  sour  milk  and  a 
piece  of  brown  bread  for  his  guest  The  next  day  the 
half-starved  Oliver  proffered  his  request  for  the  loan  of  a 
guinea.  He  was  answered  by  grave  counsel  to  avoid  debt. 
"  Sell  your  horse,"  was  the  advice  given,  "  that  will  supply 
you  with  funds,  and  I  will  furnish  you  with  a  steed  for  the 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


journey."  As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  under  the  bed  a 
stout  oaken  staff.  Goldsmith  asserted  that  he  was  about 
to  use  it  over  the  miser's  shoulders,  when  a  guest  was 
suddenly  admitted,  who  came,  like  a  good  angel,  to  his  aid. 
This  gentleman,  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  had  come 
to  invite  Oliver's  host  to  dine  with  him  on  the  morrow, 
and,  prepossessed  by  the  young  stranger's  conversation, 
extended  the  invitation  to  Goldsmith.  Oliver  at  first 
refused,  but  he  actually  needed  food,  and  was  therefore 
easily  persuaded  to  accompany  his  churlish  host  to  his 
friend's  home.  The  gentleman  perceived  that  there 
was  something  wrong  between  the  fellow  collegians,  and 
insisted  on  Goldsmith's  remaining  as  his  guest  for  a  few 
days.  When  his  friend  took  leave  Oliver  advised  him  to 
take  care  of  the  steed  he  had  kindly  offered  him,  and  not 
surfeit  his  friends  on  milk  diet. 

The  story  of  his  miserly  entertainment,  which  Goldsmith 
told  on  the  morrow  to  his  new  friend,  made  him  laugh 
heartily.  He  kept  the  poet  with  him  a  few  days,  and 
finally  lent  him  three  half  guineas  to  pay  his  travelling 
expenses.  Such  was  the  tale  which  Oliver  told  to  his 
mother  at  his  return,  concluding  by  saying,  "  and  now, 
dear  mother,  after  having  struggled  so  hard  to  come  home 
to  you,  I  wonder  you  are  not  more  glad  to  see  me  !" 

His  uncle  Contarine  again  came  to  the  aid  of  the  pro- 
digal, and  offered  to  send  him  to  study  law  at  the  Temple 
But  once  more  the  kind  intentions  of  that  good  man  wert 
baffled  by  the  incorrigible  simplicity  and  thoughtlessness 
of  his  young  kinsman.  Oliver,  when  on  his  way  to  England, 


sli  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

met  a  sharper  in  Dublin,  who  tempted  him  to  play,  and 
speedily  relieved  him  of  the  fifty  pounds  which  good  Mr. 
Contarine  had  given  him  for  the  expenses  of  his  voyage. 
Again  he  returned  to  his  poor  mother  destitute,  and  again 
her  natural  anger  was  appeased  by  his  regrets.  Mr. 
Contarine  also  forgave  him,  and  it  was  finally  decided  by 
the  much  tried  family  that  the  beloved,  but  troublesome 
genius,  should  enter  the  medical  profession,  and,  by  the 
untiring  generosity  of  his  uncle,  he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh 
about  the  latter  end  of  1752. 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  in  the  Scottish  metropolis 
he  very  nearly  became  again  a  homeless  wanderer  without 
clothes,  through  his  singular  inattention  and  carelessness. 
He  had  his  luggage  carried  by  a  porter  to  a  lodging  which 
he  engaged,  and,  telling  the  landlady  that  he  would  be 
home  to  supper,  he  went  out  to  view  the  picturesque  city 
of  the  north,  and  wandering  about  till  dark,  suddenly  re- 
membered that  he  had  not  asked  the  name  of  the  lodging- 
house  keeper,  or  noticed  that  of  the  street  in  which  she 
lived.  To  find  her  house  appeared  impossible  ;  but  while  he 
was  standing  in  anxious  perplexity,  he  chanced  to  see  the 
porter  whom  he  had  employed,  and  who  at  once  guided 
him  to  his  new  dwelling-place. 

Goldsmith  does  not  appear  to  have  studied  very  earn- 
estly at  Edinburgh ;  for  though  he  attended  the  lectures 
of  Munro  and  Cullen,  and  the  usual  classes  for  two  years, 
he  left  the  university  without  a  diploma. 

His  generous  uncle  suggested  that  he  should  go  to 
Leyden,  and  conclude  his  medical  studies  there ;  and  aj 


MEMOIK  OP  OLlVEk  GOLDSMITH. 


this  advice  was  enforced  by  the  unpleasant  circumstance  of 
an  arrest  for  the  payment  of  a  debt  for  which  he  had  gener- 
ously become  surety,  Goldsmith  —  after  being  released  by 
his  college  friends,  Mr.  Maclane  and  Dr.  Sleigh  —  embarked 
for  Bordeaux.  A  very  singular  adventure  once  more 
occurred,  which  delayed  his  journey,  but  also  saved  his 
life.  He  gives  the  following  account  of  it  in  a  letter  to  his 
benefactor  : 

"  Some  time  after  the  receipt  of  your  last,  I  embarked 
for  Bordeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ship,  called  the  '  St. 
Andrew's,'  Captain  John  Wall,  master.  The  ship  made  a 
tolerable  appearance,  and  as  another  inducement,  I  was  let 
to  know  that  six  agreeable  passengers  were  to  be  my 
company.  Well,  we  were  but  two  days  at  sea,  when  a 
storm  drove  us  into  a  city  of  England  called  Newcastle-on- 
Tyne.  We  all  went  on  shore  to  refresh  us  after  our 
royage.  Seven  men  and  I  were  one  day  on  shore,  and  on 
\he  following  evening,  as  we  were  all  very  merry,  the  room 
doors  burst  open  ;  enters  a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers 
with  their  bayonets  fixed,  and  puts  us  all  under  the  king's 
arrest.  It  seems  my  company  were  Scotchmen  in  the 
French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  to  enlist  soldiers 
for  the  French  army.  I  endeavoured  all  I  could  to  prove 
my  innocence  ;  however,  I  remained  in  prison  with  the 
rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficulty  got  off  even  then. 
Dear  sir,  keep  this  all  a  secret,  or  at  least  say  it  was  for 
debt  ;  for  if  it  were  once  known  at  the  university  I  should 
fcardly  get  a  degree  But  hear  how  Providence  interposed 


in  my  favour.  The  ship  was  gone  on  to  Bordeaux  before 
1  got  from  prison,  and  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Garonne,  and  every  one  of  the  crew  was  drowned.  It 
happened  the  last  great  storm.  There  was  a  ship  at  that 
time  ready  for  Holland ;  and,  in  nine  days,  thank  my  God, 
I  arrived  safely  at  Rotterdam,  whence  I  travelled  by  land 
to  Leyden,  and  whence  I  now  write." 

He  resided  for  about  a  year  at  Leyden,  studying  chem- 
istry under  Gaubius,  the  favourite  pupil  of  the  celebrated 
Boerhaave,  and  anatomy  under  Albinus  ;  his  expenses  being 
paid  by  his  uncle  Contarine.  But  here  his  fatal  passion  for 
gambling  reduced  him  to  the  greatest  pecuniary  difficulties, 
from  which  he  was  released  by  the  liberality  of  his  friend, 
Dr.  Ellis,  Clerk  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  who,  also, 
lent  him  a  sum  of  money  to  enable  him  to  quit  Leyden,  and 
travel.  But,  unfortunately,  Oliver  happened  to  visit  im- 
mediately afterwards  a  garden  where  the  finest  flowers  in 
tulip-loving  Holland  were  produced.  He  remembered  how 
his  uncle  Contarine  loved  flowers,  and  in  a  sudden  glow  of 
grateful  recollection,  spent  all  his  money  on  the  purchase 
of  some  costly  roots  to  send  to  his  benefactor. 

He  was  now  without  money  or  resources,  and  determined 
therefore  to  make  a  pedestrian  tour  through  Europe.  He 
started  with  only  a  new  shirt  in  his  pocket,  and  a  German 
flute.  He  spoke  French  tolerably,  and  knew  a  little 
Italian;  these .  languages  enabled  him  (with  the  help  of 
Latin)  to  make  himself  understood  in  most  of  the  lands 
ht  visited.  He  walked  by  day,  visiting  and  exploring 


MEMOIR  Off  OLIVE*  GOtbSMtTR. 


the  beautiful  South  of  France,  the  valleys  of  the  Alps, 
or  the  classic  plains  of  Italy ;  when  evening  gathered 
over  the  earth,  he  took  out  his  German  flute,  and  played 
from  memory  the  delicious  Irish  airs  which  haunted  his 
car,  the  charm  of  which  won  for  him  ready  hospitality 
from  the  French  peasant  or  the  Flemish  boor,  at  whose 
doors  he  lingered. 

Sometimes  he  came  to  one  of  those  monastic  seats  of 
learning,  where  it  was  still  the  custom  on  certain  days, 
to  maintain  thesis  against  any  wandering  disputant ;  for 
which,  if  the  scholar-errant  acquitted  himself  ably,  he 
might  claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for 
the  night.  This  was  a  great  resource  for  Oliver,  who  had 
no  objection  to  an  argument  for  its  own  sake,  and  who  was 
quite  ready  to  win  money  and  needful  refreshment  by  it. 
"  Thus,"  he  says,  "  I  fought  my  way  from  convent  to  con- 
vent ;  walked  from  city  to  city ;  examined  mankind  more 
nearly  ;  and,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the 
picture." 

In  this  manner  he  travelled  through  Flanders,  and  parts 
of  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland.  He  went  to  Padua, 
where  he  remained  six  months.  He  visited  also  Venice, 
Verona,  and  Florence.  Whilst  he  was  in  Italy  his  kind 
uncle  contrived  to  get  a  little  money  to  him,  and  by  this 
aid  probably  Goldsmith  was  enabled  to  resume  his  medical 
studies  at  Padua. 

But  the  death  of  that  generous  man  made  it  necessary 
for  Oliver  to  seek  some  permanent  means  of  subsist- 
ence, and  with  a  sad  heart  the  poet,  (he  had  already  begun 


to  write  his  fine  poem  the  "Traveller,")  took  his  homeward 
way,  striving  with  all  sorts  of  difficulties  till  he  had  crossed 
the  Channel,  and  at  last  reached  London,  1756.  There  he 
stood,  a  ragged,  way-worn  man,  with  but  a  few  half-pence 
in  his  pocket.  He  attempted  to  obtain  a  situation  as  usher 
in  a  school,  and  through  the  recommendation  of  Dr.  Rad- 
cliffe,  a  mild,  benevolent  man,  who  had  been  joint  tutor  with 
the  savage  Wilder  at  Trinity  College,  he  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining the  post  he  desired.  But  disgusted  at  the  drudgery 
and  mortifications  to  which  he  found  himself  exposed,  he 
soon  left  his  situation,  and  applied  to  several  apothecaries 
for  the  place  of  assistant.  His  threadbare  coat,  ungainly 
figure,  and  broad  Irish  accent,  however,  stood  in  his  way, 
and  he  was  finally  compelled  to  take  the  place  of  journey- 
man-assistant in  the  laboratory  of  a  chemist,  near  Fish- 
street  Hill.  From  the  drudgery  of  this  place  he  was 
released  by  the  generous  aid  of  his  old  fellow-student,  at 
Edinburgh,  Dr.  Sleigh,  whom  he  accidentally  met  in 
London,  and  who  at  once  supplied  him  with  money.  By 
his  advice  Goldsmith  set  up  in  practice  as  a  physician  in 
Southwark  (at  Bankside),  from  whence  he  removed  to  the 
Temple.  But  Oliver  did  not  find  his  profession  a  remuner- 
ative one ;  he  had,  as  he  said,  "  an  extensive  circle  of 
patients,  but  no  fees."  Necessity  therefore  drove  him  to 
literature  as  a  pursuit. 

At  this  time  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  several 
young  medical  men  whom  he  had  known  when  in  Edinburgh; 
amongst  them  was  the  son  of  a  Dr.  Milner,  a  dissenting 
minister  who  had  a  classical  school  at  Peckham,  Surrey.  Dr, 


MEMOIR  OP  OLIVEJi.  GOLDSMITH.  *vii 


Milner  was  seriously  indisposed  shortly  after  the  renewal 
of  Goldsmith's  acquaintance  with  his  son,  and  the  latter 
asked  his  friend  to  superintend  his  academy  till  the  master 
should  be  able  to  resume  his  duties.  That  time  never 
came ;  for  Dr.  Milner's  illness  was  of  long  duration  and 
ended  in  death  ;  but  before  he  died  he  had  secured  for 
Goldsmith  a  situation  as  physician  to  one  of  the  English 
factories  on  the  Coromandel  Coast.  This  appointment 
was  considered  likely  to  produce  an  income  of  one  thou- 
sand per  annum ;  but  Goldsmith  ultimately  refused  it. 
Probably  his  lively  imagination  realized  too  vividly  the 
distant  exile  from  all  whom  he  loved,  and  he  preferred  a 
struggle  with  poverty  in  his  own  land  to  wealth  in  the  far 
East  Moreover,  he  had,  as  he  used  to  phrase  it,  "  a  happy 
knack  at  hoping,"  and  he  was  beginning  to  find  that  he 
could  earn  money  quickly  by  his  pen. 

In  1758  he  was  engaged  by  Mr.  Griffiths,  the  publisher 
and  proprietor  of  the  Monthly  Review,  as  a  writer  on  the  stafi 
of  that  periodical ;  for  this  work  he  received  board,  lodging 
and  a  handsome  salary.  At  the  end  of  seven  or  eight 
months  the  engagement  was  broken  off,  however ;  Gold- 
smith then  took  lodgings  in  Green  Arbour  Court,  in  the 
Old  Bailey,  where  he  completed  his  "  Present  State  of 
Literature  in  Europe,"  printed  for  Dodsley,  1759.  A  friend 
paying  him  a  visit  at  this  time,  found  him  in  a  miserably 
dirty  room,  which  contained  only  one  chair.  Goldsmith, 
yielding  it  to  his  guest,  was  compelled  to  find  a  seat  in  the 
window.  He  afterwards  removed  to  tolerably  good 
lodgings  in  Wine  Office  Court,  Fleet  Street;  there  he 


iviu  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

wrote  his  famous  novel  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and  also 
became  acquainted  with  Samuel  Johnson,  to  whose  just 
appreciation  of  its  rare  merit  we  probably  owe  the  publi- 
cation of  that  enchanting  story.  We  give  Johnson's  own 
account  of  how  he  became  the  literary  sponsor  of  "  Dr. 
Primrose." 

"I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Gold- 
smith that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised 
him  to  come  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was 
drest,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his 
rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived 
that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a 
bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork 
into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to 
talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated. 
He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  rea-dy  for  the  press, 
which  he  produced.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit ; 
told  the  landlady  I  should  soon  return,  and  having  gone  to 
a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Gold- 
smith the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without 
rating  his  landlady  for  having  used  him  so  ill."* 

But  Mr.  Newberry  had  not  much  faith  in  the  wonderful 
novel  which  was  so  great  a  contrast  to  the  popular  fictions 
of  the  day  ;  and  he  kept  the  MS.  by  him  till  the  publi- 

•  This  is  the  account  give*  by  Boswell  in  his  "Life  of  Johnson.' 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITt*.  cil 

cation   of  the   "Traveller"   had    established    Goldsmith'* 
literary  fame,  and  ensured  the  success  of  his  tale. 

In  the  spring  of  1763  Goldsmith  removed  to  lodgings  at 
Canonbury  House,  Islington,  and  undertook  a  great  deal 
of  literary  employment  for  Mr.  Newberry,  for  whom  he 
corrected  and  revised  the  "Art  of  Poetry,"  wrote  the  "  Life 
of  Beau  Nash,"  and  probably  did  much  useful  bui  nov/ 
unknown  work.  Here  also  he  wrote  his  "  Letter^  en 
English  History,  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son,"  which 
were  attributed  at  the  time  to  Lord  Lyttelton,  the  Earl 
of  Orrery,  and  other  noblemen,  and  obtained  good  success 
His  "Survey  of  Experimental  Philosophy,"  which  was 
not  printed  till  some  years  afterw?.'^,  was  written  at  this 
time. 

In  1765  Goldsmith  published  his  fine  poem  "The 
Traveller."  He  had  written  part  of  it  whilst  he  wandered 
amongst  the  Swiss  mountains;  he  completed  it  at  intervals, 
while  doing  literary  drudge ty  for  his  daily  bread.  He 
conducted  for  Wilkie  a  Lady's  Magazine,  and  wrote 
some  delightful  essays  for  a  publication  called  the  "  Bee." 
For  the  "  Public  Ledger,"  he  wrote  a  series  of  letters  in  the 
character  of  a  Chinese  philosopher ;  they  were  afterward  <> 
collected  and  published  by  Newberry,  1762,  under  the  title 
of  the  "  Citizen  of  the  World."  This  work  proved  suffi 
ciently  profitable  to  permit  him,  in  1764,  to  take  up  his 
abode  in  the  Temple  ;  first  in  the  Library  Staircase,  next 
in  the  King's  Bench  Walk,  and  latterly  at  2,  Brick  Court, 
where  he  had  handsome  apartments  on  the  first  floor, 
elegantly  furnished.  He  began  at  this  time  to  pay  more 


**  MEMC/K  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

attention  to  his  dress,  wearing  the  physician's  peculiar 
costume  of  scarlet  cloak,  wig,  sword,  and  cane ;  he  also 
engaged  an  amanuensis  to  lighten  his  literary  toil,  but  this 
last  luxury  was  speedily  dispensed  with,  for  Goldsmith  found 
that  head  and  hand  must  in  his  case  work  together.  He 
was  unable  to  dictate  a  sentence ;  so  he  gave  his  clerk  a 
guinea  and  dismissed  him. 

In  1764  the  celebrated  Literary  Club  was  instituted,  and 
Goldsmith,  as  one  of  its  earliest  members,  became  asso- 
ciated with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  ;  Dr. 
Johnson — already  his  tried  and  affectionate  friend — Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  Edmund  Burke,  Topham  Beauclerk, 
Mr.  Langton,  Mr.  Chamier,  Under  Secretary  of  State,  &c., 
&c.,  were  members  of  it.  The  club  met  for  some  years 
every  Monday  evening,  at  the  "  Turk's  Head,"  in  Gerard 
Street,  Soho ;  had  supper,  and  sat  till  a  late  hour.  This 
society  weaned  Goldsmith  in  a  great  degree  from  the 
low  associates  towards  whom  the  privations  of  his  former 
life  had  drawn  him. 

He  was  at  this  time  possessed  by  a  desire  to  explore 
Asia  and  the  interior  of  Africa,  with  a  view  of  introducing 
the  arts  of  the,  east  into  England.  He  applied  to  Lord 
Bute  for  a  salary  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  carry  out  this 
idea ;  and  drew  up  an  essay  on  the  subject,  which  ap- 
peared in  his  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  but  his  memorial 
received  no  attention,  and  he  was  unable  to  achieve  his 
purpose. 

The  success  of  the  "Traveller," — which  obtained  the 
praise  of  Johnson,  who  declared  it  to  be  'the  finest  poem  since 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Pope's  time,"  and  of  Fox,  who  called  it  "  one  of  the  finest 
poems  in  the  English  language,"  —  introduced  Goldsmith 
to  many  noble  and  influential  people.  Lord  Nugent 
(afterwards  Lord  Clare)  became  his  intimate  friend,  and 
introduced  him  to  Earl  Percy,  afterwards  Duke  of  North- 
umberland, who  was  then  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland.  The 
earl  invited  Goldsmith,  through  his  friend  Dr.  Percy,  to 
call  on  him.  The  simple-minded  poet  obeyed  with  natural 
pride  at  the  distinction  ;  and  being  shown  into  an  anti- 
chamber  where  he  had  to  wait  some  time,  he  amused 
himself  by  thinking  over  a  complimentary  address  with 
which  he  meant  to  greet  the  earl.  But  alas !  a  groom 
of  the  chambers  of  pompous  presence  chanced  to  enter 
first,  and  Goldsmith  bestowed  on  him  the  compliments 
destined  for  his  master !  At  that  moment  Lord  Percy 
entered  the  room,  and  the  absent  poet  perceiving  his 
blunder,  was  so  shocked  and  embarrassed  that  he  could 
scarcely  stammer  out  a  reply  to  the  earl's  courteous  greet- 
ing. Earl  Percy  (Goldsmith  afterwards  told  Sir  John 
Hawkins)  told  the  poet  that  he  had  read  the  "Traveller," 
"  and  was  much  delighted  with  it ;  that  he  was  going  as 
lord  lieutenant  to  Ireland,  and  as  he  understood  Mr.  Gold- 
smith was  a  native  of  that  country,  he  should  be  glad  to 
do  him  any  kindness  he  could."  No  thought  of  self 
crossed  the  mind  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  He  replied  that  he 
had  a  brother  there,  a  clergyman,  who  needed  help,  and 
that  he  should  be  grateful  if  Earl  Percy  would  show  to 
him  the  kindness  destined  for  himself. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  generous  request  met 


vxu  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


no  attention,  though  Earl  Percy  on  his  return  from  his  vice- 
royalty  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the  poet. 

Goldsmith  had  the  weakness  of  priding  himself  on  pos- 
sessing grand  acquaintances,  and  was  fond  of  boasting  of  his 
intimacy  with  Earl  Percy.  An  ingenious  bailiff,  who  wished 
to  serve  a  writ  on  him,  took  advantage  of  it  to  arrest  him. 
He  wrote  to  Goldsmith  in  the  character  of  steward  to  a 
nobleman  who  had  read  his  poem,  admired  it,  and  requested 
the  pleasure  of  an  interview  at  a  certain  coffee-house.  The 
poet,  deceived  and  flattered,  obeyed  the  summons,  and 
found  himself  confronted  by  his  enemy,  the  bailiff.  The 
debt  (which  was  trifling)  was,  however,  discharged  on  the 
spot  by  Mr.  Hamilton,  printer  of  the  "Critical  Review,* 
— an  old  friend  of  Goldsmith's — and  he  was  set  free. 

In  1765  Goldsmith  published  his  beautiful  ballad  of  the 
"  Hermit,"  and  in  1768  his  first  play,  "  The  Good-natured 
Man,"  was  performed  at  Covent  Garden,  then  under  the 
management  of  Coleman,  The  play  was  not  as  successful 
as  from  its  extraordinary  merits  it  deserved  to  be,  but  it 
obtained,  nevertheless,  much  admiration,  and  brought  some 
profit  for  the  author.  Whilst  Goldsmith  was  engaged  on 
it  he  wrote  numerous  prefaces,  introductions,  and  histories  ; 
he  was,  indeed,  always  full  of  business  as  a  writer.  He 
wrote  and  abridged  at  this  time  the  histories  of  England 
and  Rome,  which  have  almost  up  to  the  present  day  been 
standard  school  books. 

His  exquisite  poem,  "The  Deserted  Village,"  appeared 
in  1769.  It  offers  charming  pictures  of  the  village  in 
his  youth  had  been  passed.  The  schoolmaster, — the 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


preacher  (a  portrait  of  his  excellent  father)—  the  aged 
beggar,  —  the  ale-house,  —  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  hamlet, 
still  live  in  the  melodious  lines  of  the  poet.  The  truth  and 
tenderness  of  his  affectionate  recollections  stamp  the 
"  Deserted  Viilage  "  with  a  vitality  which  will  probably  pre- 
serve it  in  its  present  high  place  as  long  as  the  language  in 
which  it  is  written  exists. 

Goldsmith's  poems  were  composed  with  so  much  pains 
and  care,  that  it  is  said  that  scarcely  a  word  of  his  first  copy 
ever  went  to  press.  He  wrote  his  lines  very  far  apart,  and 
filled  up  the  intermediate  space  with  his  numerous  correc- 
tions. He  was  two  years  writing  the  "  Deserted  Village." 

Happily  for  his  pecuniary  circumstances,  he  wrote  prose 
both  rapidly  and  well,  and  is  said  in  the  course  of  fourteen 
years  to  have  received  upwards  of  £8000  as  the  price  of 
his  literary  labours.  In  1771  he  wrote  a  "  Life  of  Parnell," 
and  in  the  same  year,  a  "  Life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,"  and 
his  "  History  of  Greece." 

His  next  large  work  was  a  comedy,  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  which  appeared  at  Covent  Garden,  March  15, 
1773.  He  is  said  to  have  cleared  £800  by  it.  One  of  his  last 
works  was  "A  History  of  the  Earth  and  of  Animated 
Nature,"  published  1774.  He  received  for  it  £850. 

But  no  money  could  enrich  the  thoughtless,  generous, 
benevolent  poet.  He  supported  two  or  three  poor  authors  ; 
he  had  several  widows  and  poor  housekeepers  constant 
pensioners  on  his  bounty.  When  his  money  was  exhausted 
he  gave  them  his  clothes,  and  sometimes  the  whole  of  his 
Breakfast,  saying,  after  they  were  gone,  with  a  smile  of 


ndv  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

satisfaction,  u  Now  let  me  suppose  that  I  have  eaten  a 
good  breakfast,  and  am  nothing  out  of  pocket"  Of 
economy  he  had  no  idea,  and  as  a  fatal  habit  of  gambling 
possessed  him,  and  his  charity  was  simply  boundless,  the 
purse  of  Fortunatus  alone  could  have  kept  him  free  from 
pecuniary  embarrassments. 

When  his  money  was  exhausted  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
hiring  a  lodging  some  miles  out  of  London,  and  writing 
incessantly,  without  taking  any  exercise,  till  his  work  was 
done.  He  would  then  carry  the  MS.  to  London,  sell  it  to 
the  booksellers,  and  with  the  price  of  it,  enter  at  once  into 
all  the  gaieties  of  London  life.  As  he  attained  popularity, 
however,  and  the  value  of  his  name  became  apparent,  the 
booksellers  were  only  too  ready  to  advance  him  money  foi 
works  to  be  hereafter  written,  and  with  these  engagements 
he  became  greatly  burdened  towards  the  beginning  of 
1774,  although  for  the  past  year's  work  he  had  received 
£1800.  This  life  of  long  intervals  of  heavy  work  without 
exercise,  and  of  reckless  dissipation  after  it,  joined  to  his 
pecuniary  anxieties,  and  a  painful  complaint  from  which 
he  suffered,  brought  on,  in  March,  1774,  a  nervous  fever. 
He  sent  for  Mr.  Hobbs,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  take 
some  of  Dr.  James's  Powders,  from  which  he  had  once 
before,  in  a  similar  illness,  derived  great  benefit.  Mr. 
Hobbs  tried  to  persuade  him  not  to  do  so,  and  finding  his 
entreaties  fruitless,  requested  him  to  call  in  Dr.  Fordyce, 
in  whose  skill  both  had  great  confidence.  This  second 
adviser  also  objected  to  the  powders,  but  Goldsmith  per- 
sisted in  taking  them,  and  was  so  ill  on  the  following  day 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


that  his  friends  summoned  Dr.  Turton  to  a  consultation. 
Dr.  Turton,  after  feeling  his  patient's  pulse,  observed,  "  Your 
pulse  is  in  greater  disorder  than  it  should  be  from  the 
degree  of  fever  which  you  have ;  is  your  mind  at  ease  ?" 
Goldsmith  answered,  "  It  is  not." 

Nothing  could  stop  the  progress  of  the  fever,  and  on  the 
4th  of  April,  1774,  the  poet,  historian,  novelist,  essayist, 
passed  au  ay  to  his  rest  ;  regretted,  not  only  by  his  literary 
associates,  but  by  numbers  of  poor  and  lowly  creatures 
who  had  never  found  his  bounty  fail  them.  Our  readers 
will  probably  remember  the  beautiful  picture  exhibited 
in  the  Royal  Academy  a  few  years  ago  of  the  scene 
in  Bolt  Court  the  morning  after  Goldsmith's  death ; 
the  weeping  poor  who  mourned  the  man  who  had  been 
every  one's  friend  but  his  own — the  gentle,  generous  Gold- 
smith. He  died  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  and  full  force  of 
his  intellect — being  only  forty-five  years  of  age  when  he 
expired. 

One  of  the  probable  causes  of  his  mental  disquietude 
became  apparent  after  his  death.  He  was  ^"2000  in  debt. 
In  consequence  of  this  untoward  circumstance  his  friends 
did  not  think  it  advisable  to  give  him  a  public  funeral. 
They  determined  to  bury  him  privately  in  the  Temple,  and 
to  erect  a  marble  monument  to  his  memory  afterwards,  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  His  remains  were  therefore  interred 
quietly  in  the  Temple  burying-ground,  April  pth,  1774, 
and  soon  after  a  subscription  was  commenced  for  the 
purchase  of  the  monument.  It  was  executed  by  Nollekens, 
and  bears  a  large  medallion  with  a  good  resemblance  of 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  poet  in  profile ;  underneath,  on  a  tablet  of  white  marble 
is  the  inscription  written  by  Dr.  Johnson  : — 

OLIVARII     GOLDSMITH, 

POET^E,   PHYSICI,    HISTORICI, 
QUI  NULLUM  FERE  SCRIBENDI  GENUS 

NON   TETIGIT, 

NULLUM   QUOD   TETIGIT   NON   ORNAVIT  \ 
SIVE  RISUS  ESSENT  MOVENDI 

SIVE  LACRYM.E, 

AFFECTUUM   POTENS  AD  LENIS  DOMINATOR  * 

INGENIO   SUBLIMIS,   VIVIDUS,  VERSATILIS, 

ORATIONE  GRANDIS,   NITIDUS  VENUSTUS  ; 

HOC  MONUMENTO  MEMORIAM  COLUIT 

SODALIUM   AMOR, 

AMICORUM   FIDES, 

ECTORUM   VENERATIO. 

NATUS  IN   HIBERNIA,   FORNLE  LONGFORDIENSIS 
IN   LOCO  CUI   NOMEN   PALLAS, 

NOV.   29,   MDCCXXXI.,* 
EBLAN^E  LITERIS  INSTITUTUS  ; 

OBIIT    LONDINI, 
APRIL   4,  MDCCLXXIV. 

(TKANSLATION.) 
To  the  Memory  of  Oliver  Goldsmith, 

Poet,  Naturalist,  and  Historian, 

who  left  no  species  of  writing  untouched  or  unadorned  by 
•  A  mistake  not  discovered  till  the  momu»«nt  bad  b«en  erected ;  it  should 


MEMOIR  OP  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  rxvi 

his  pen  ;  a  powerful  master  of  the  passions,  whether  to 
move  to  laughter  or  to  draw  forth  tears  ;  of  a  genius  sub- 
lime, vivid,  and  versatile  ;  in  expression  noble,  pure,  and 
graceful.  This  monument  has  been  consecrated  by  the 
love  of  his  companions,  the  affection  of  his  friends,  and  the 
veneration  of  his  readers.  He  was  born  in  the  kingdom  of 
Ireland,  at  Ferney  in  the  County  of  Longford,  at  a  place 
named  Pallas,  Nov.  29th,  1731  (1/28).  He  was  educated 
at  Dublin,  and  died  in  London,  April  4th,  1774. 

Goldsmith's  personal  appearance  by  MO  means  equalled 
his  mental  gifts.  He  was  a  short  thick-set  man,  his 
features  large  and  coarse,  and  his  face  much  marked  with 
the  small-pox.  His  manner  was  awkward  ;  and  he  either 
dressed  carelessly,  or  was  absurdly  fine. 

The  great  fault  of  his  character  was  vanity,  both  of  his 
plain  person  and  his  rare  and  delightful  intellectual  gifts ; 
and  the  simplicity  of  his  character,  open  as  a  child's,  exposed 
this  weakness  to  the  sneers  of  those  around  him.  But  he 
had  a  rare  power  of  winning  affection  ;  from  grave  old  Dr. 
Johnson  to  the  smallest  child  who  knew  "Goldy"  all  truly 
loved  him,  and  his  boundless  charity  should  surely  suffice 
to  cover  far  heavier  failings  than  the  simple  pride  of  one 
who  had  risen  by  his  own  talents  from  a  homeless  wanderer 
to  be  the  admired  poet  of  his  day. 

His  genius  was  of  the  highest  order.  Scott's  eulogium 
of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  is  well  known.  Johnson  says  of 
him,  "  Whether  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer, 


mcvui  MEMOIR  Of  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

or  as  an  historian  he  stands  in  the  first  class.     Whatever  he. 
wrote  he  did  it  better  than  any  other  man  could." 

With  this  generous  criticism  from  the  grand  old  moralist 
we  close  our  brief  memoir,  merely  adding  that  so  power- 
fully do  the  comic  weaknesses,  the  humanity,  good  nature, 
and  archness  of  this  prince  of  novelists  affect  the  minds  of 
most  readers,  that,  perhaps,  if  required  to  name  the  author 
who  has  the  strongest  hold  on  our  affections,  even  in  the 
present  day,  we  should  very  generally  reply,  "Olivet 
Goldsmith." 


GOLDSMITH'S    POEMS. 


THE    TRAVELLER: 

OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 


TO  THE  REV.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 

PEAR  SIR, — I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us 
can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedi- 
cation ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix 
your  name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline  giving  with 
your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you 
from  Switzerland,  the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  in- 
scribed to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts  of  itv 
when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  addressed  to  a  man,  who 
despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired  early  to  happiness  and 
obscurity  with  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  humble 
choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  where  the  harvest 
is  great,  and  the  labourers  are  but  few ;  while  you  have  left  the 
field  of  ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the  harvest 
not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition — wha» 
from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from  different  systems  of  criti- 

i 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


cisrn,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party — that  which  pursues  poetical 
fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpolished  nations  ; 
but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes  of  refinement,  Painting 
and  Music  come  in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind 
a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first  rival  Poetry,  and  at 
length  supplant  her;  they  engross  all  that  favour  once  shown 
to  her,  and  though  but  younger  sisters,  seize  upon  the  elder's 
birthright 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  powerful,  it  is 
still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforts  of  the  learned 
to  improve  it.  What  criticisms  have  we  not  heard  of  late  in 
favour  of  blank  verse  and  Pindaric  odes,  choruses,  anapests  and 
iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence  !  Every  absurdity 
has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it ;  and  as  he  is  generally  much 
in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say ;  for  error  is  ever 
talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dangerous ;  I  mean 
party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judgment,  and  destroys  the 
taste.  When  the  mind  is  once  infected  with  this  disease,  it  can 
only  find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  increase  the  distemper. 
Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from  pursuing  man  after  having 
once  preyed  upon  human  flesh,  the  reader  who  has  once  gratified 
his  appetite  with  calumny  makes  ever  after  the  most  agreeable 
feast  upon  murdered  reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire 
some  half-witted  thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man, 
having  lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify  with 
the  name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons  are  called  satires,  his 
turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither  abuse, 
party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell ;  nor  am  I 
solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right.  Without  espousing  the 
cause  of  any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the  rage  of  all. 
I  have  endeavoured  to  show,  that  there  may  be  equal  happiness 
in  states  that  are  differently  governed  from  our  own ;  that  every 
state  has  a  particular  principle  of  happiness ;  and  that  this  prin- 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


ciple  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mischievous  excess.  There 
are  few  can  judge  better  than  yourself  how  far  these  positions  are 
illustrated  in  this  poem. 

I  am, 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  affectionate  brother, 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


EMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow — 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scfield,  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  dooi 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies — 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravelled  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  t 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire  j 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair: 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  of  pranks  that  never  fail^ 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale \ 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food. 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care; 
Impelled,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view ; 

i— a 


GOLDSMITHS  POEMS. 


That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear} 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 
When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  Pride  repine? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns  with  wealth  and  splendour  crowned, 
Ye  fields  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round, 
Ye  lakes  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 
Ye  bending  swains  that  dress  the  flowery  vale, 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine  I 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er— 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  risjng  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still — 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned, 


THE  TRAVELLER, 


Wher*»  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest. 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Roasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Casks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  diffe-ent  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call : 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent— 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign  contentment  fail% 
And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state  to  one  loved  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 


GOLDSMITHS 


Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends- 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  liesj 
Here,  for  a  while  my  proper  cares  resigned, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground- 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year- 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die — 
These,  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submissive,  vainj 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ;  Z!.M'<VIS,  yet  untrue; 
And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 
For  wealth  was  theirs — not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the  state. 
At  her  command  the  palace  learned  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fall'n  column  sought  the  skies; 
The  canvas  glowed  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teemed  with  human  form : 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail, 
While  nought  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a  slave  I 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love — 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled  J 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child. 
Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind. 
As  in  those  domes  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  : 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 


Gor.D*ttf?Ft*s  POEMS. 


My  soul,  turn  from  them  !  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display — 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread> 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  j 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  e'en  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Thou0h  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  though  small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks  that  brighten  at  the  blaze—- 
While his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms  J 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assigned—* 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined ; 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest ; 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve  and  vibrate  through  the  frame; 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquenched  by  want,  unfanned  by  strong  desire  \ 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow — 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  lowj 
For  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unaltered,  unimproved  the  manners  run — 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed 
Fail  blunted  frpro  each  indurated  heart, 


10  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the  way- 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please^ 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire, 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ! 
And  haply — though  my  harsh  touch,  falt'ring  still, 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill- 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze  \ 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current — paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land  > 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise — 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem, 


TffE  TRAVELLER.  II 


But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought — 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart  } 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lacej 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year  : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draw% 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause, 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  lands 
And  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore — • 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  j 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain— 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 


IS  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  displayed.     Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear- 
E'en  liberty  itself  is  bartered  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buvs  j 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Her  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  I 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow — • 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide : 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray; 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  statC) 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 
Intent  on  high  designs — a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control ; 
While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  (o  scan, 
learns  to  venerate  W«»«««lf  as  raau. 


TffE  TRAVELLER. 


Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ; 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy, 
But,  fostered  e'en  by  freedom,  ills  annoy. 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tiei 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone — 
AH  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown. 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repelled. 
Ferments  arise,  imprisoned  factions  roar, 
Repressed  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore- 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  ccme  when,  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of  arms — 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toiled,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame- 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonoured  die. 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  I 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage  and  tyrant's  angry  steel — 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
Py  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fosteriug  sun-* 


I4  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure  1 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil } 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  Jay  proportioned  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportioned  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms  : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne^ 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own — 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free — 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law — 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home — 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start, 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart  j 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother !  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  bright'ning  as  they  waste  ? 
Seen  opulence  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train., 


THE  TRAVELLER.  15 


And  over  fields  where  scattered  haml«ts  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decayed, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main — 
Where  wild  Oswego*  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  ways, 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous  aim- 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise — 
The  pensive  exile  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine^ 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find, 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  I 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

•  A  Uk«  ofth*  State  rfNew  Yodt 


tS  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

The  lifted  axe,  the  agonising  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,*  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel,t 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faiil^  and  conscience  all  our  own4 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE: 

A  POEM. 

FIRST   PRINTED   IN    1769. 


TO   SIR  JOSHUA    REYNOLDS. 
lEAR  SIR, — I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  df 


this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  or  to  estab- 
lish my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration, 
as  I  an;  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel ; 
and  I  may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have 
3  juster  taste  in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside, 
to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at  pre- 
sent in  following  my  affections.  The  only  dedication  I  ever  made 
was  to  my  brother,  because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other 
men.  He  is  since  dead.  Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you. 
How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and  mere 
mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I  do  not  pretend  to  inquire ;  but 
I  know  you  will  object  (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 
friends  concur  in  the  opinion),  that  the  depopulation  it  deplores 
is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders  it  laments  are  only  to  be 
found  in  the  poet's  own  imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarcely  make 

*  Luke  Zeck  and  his  brother  George  headed  an  insurrection  in  Hungary, 
A.D.   1514.     George,  not  Luke  (as  the  poet  says  by  mistake),  had  his  head 
encircled  by  a  red-hot  iron  crown  in  mocking  punishment. 

t  Robert  Francois  Damiens,  a  mad  fanatic,  attempted  the  life  of  Louis  XV., 
in  1757.  He  was  put  to  death  with  horrible  tortures,  being  broken  asunder 
on  the  wheel  and  then  torn  by  horses. 

*  The  U»t  nine  lines  of  the  "  Traveler"  were  written  by  Dr.  Johnson. 


THE  DESE&T&D  VILLAGE.  t> 

any  Othe.r  answer,  than  that  I  sinctrely  believe  what  I  have 
written ;  that  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  ex- 
cursions, for  these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I 
allege  ;  and  that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe 
tho?,e  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is 
not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry,  whether  the  country  be  de 
populating  or  not ;  the  discussion  would  take  up  much  room,  and 
I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indifferent  politician,  to  tire  the 
reader  with  a  long  preface,  when  I  want  his  unfeigned  attention  to 
a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh  against 
the  increase  of  our  luxuries ;  and  here  also  I  expect  the  shout  of 
modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest 
national  advantages ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  in  that  par- 
ticular as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I  must  remain  a  professed 
ancient  on  that  head,  and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries  preju- 
dicial to  states  by  which  so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so 
many  kingdoms  have  been  undone.  Indeed  so  much  has  been 
poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  merely 
for  the  sake  of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to 
be  in  the  right. 

I  am, 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  sincere  friend  and  ardent  admirer, 

GOLDSMITH 


[WEET  AUBURN  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed—- 

Dear lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  ever?  sport  could  please  — 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ; 


I 


POEMS. 


How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm-  - 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made : 

How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree — 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired, 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place : 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks'  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled  1 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn : 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  j 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 


TffS  DESERTED  VrLLAG&. 


t| 


Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 

And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

V      111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  madej 

/  But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied,  j 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  ga've  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain : 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose  ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  AUBURN,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour! 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  -uined  grounds, 

a — » 


POEMS. 


And.  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

/ 

In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share— 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw. 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  qnits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep-, 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  *s 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young j 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron — forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  mom- 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain  ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place : 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  nuur : 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise 


2*  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS, 


His  house  was  known  to  al!  the  vagrant  train 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long  remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won, 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed  \ 
The  reverend  champion  stood :  at  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 


Tff£  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  23 

His  ready  smiV  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven  : 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  cloud*  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  gle* 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew. 
Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  toe  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  preiiago, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill  ; 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  scuud* 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame  :  the  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot 


£4  GOLDSMITfTS  POEMS. 


Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  grey-beard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place : 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door  > 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay— 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Hanged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear  j 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round : 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

X     Yes  1  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train — 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art     \. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  25 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway  j 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined  ; 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain — 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay— 
Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around ; 
Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth } 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure — aH 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies^ 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes-* 


GOLDSMITITS  POEMS. 


But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  traii, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail— 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed  ; 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band — 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save 
^   The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside^ 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide* 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long  drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy, 
these  denote  one  universal  joy  I 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah !  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 

He>  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  ; 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head — 

And  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  AUBURN,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  / 

Ah,  no  !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  ton-id  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama*  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  wofcds  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  j 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned^ 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake — 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies, 

•  A  river  of  Georgia,  United  State*, 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  I  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  j 
When  the  poor  exile,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ;— 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep  I 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
^  x>    With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear—- 
Whilst her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury !  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  1 

v   How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 

v  Diffuse  thy  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 

^  kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own ; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  safl» 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move — a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand  j 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there; 
And  piety,  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame- 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride — 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found 'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so-» 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue — fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and  oh,  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Tornea's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  *  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime. 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states,  of  native  strength  possessed^ 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away ;   '; 

'  A  mountain  of  Mexico. 


GOIXSMITITS  AflSCELLA  KROUS  POEMS. 

While  self-dependent  power  c*n  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  axxl  the  sky.* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

CLOWN'S   REPLY. 

'753- 

OHN  TROTT  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers. 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears ; 
"  An't  please  you,"  quoth  John, "  I'm  not  given  to  letters, 
Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters ; 
Howe'er  from  this  time  I  shall  ne'er  see  your  graces — 
As  I  hope  to  be  saved ! — without  thinking  on  asses. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBECt 

'759- 

the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 
Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 
Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure 

O  Wolfe,  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe 

Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear  ; 
Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 

Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 
Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled, 

And  saw  thee  faA  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes ; 
Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead  I 

Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

"  The  four  last  lines  are  by  Dr.  Johnson 

•f  General  James  Wolfe  was  born  1726,  w*  W.1  *t  «h»  moment  o>c  victory  »t 
Quebec,  Sept.  I3th,  1759.  Goldsmith  cuuibed  >»UUiunsbij,  with  this  gallanif 
UK!  distinguished  soldier. 


PROLOGUE  B  Y  LABERIUS.  31 


A   PROLOGUE 

WRITTEN   AND   SPOKEN   BY  THB 

POET    LABERIUS,* 

A,  ROMAN  KNIGHT,  WHOM  CCSAK  FORCED  UPON  THE  STAGS. 

PRESERVED   BY  MACROBIUS. 

1759- 

| HAT  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stage, 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age  ? 
Scarce  half  alive,  oppressed  with  many  a  year. 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here  ? 

A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide — 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside  j 

Unawed  by  power,  and  unappalled  by  fear, 

With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honour  dear : 

But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 

And  all  my  hoard  of  honour  is  no  more—- 
For ah  !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 

Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine  I 

Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 

Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 

Here,  then,  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 

And  cancel,  at  threescore,  a  life  of  fame. 

No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 

The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well ; 

This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 

For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 

•  Decimus  Laberius  wrote  mimes  or  satirical  productions  for  the  stage. 
Caesar  compelled  him  to  perform  in  one  against  his  will ;  and  Laberius  spoke  a 
satirical  prologue  against  Caesar  on  the  occasion.  This  prologue  was  preserved 
bj  Aulus  Gellius.  Laberius  died  B.C.  44. 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE   DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION. 
A  TALE. 

1765- 

CLUDED  from  domestic  strife, 
Jack  Book-worm  led  a  college  life; 
A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 
Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  5 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  cracked  his  joke, 

And  freshmen  wondered  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures  unalloyed  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six? 
Oh  !  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town ; 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet  Street  shop  I 
Oh  !  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze  I 
Or  J  ack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze ! 

Oh  I but  let  exclamations  cease, 

Her  presence  banished  all  his  peace. 

So  with  decorum  all  things  carried ; 

Miss  frowned,  and  blushed,  and  then  wa?  married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night  ? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallowed  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around? 
Let  it  suffice  that  each  had  charms ; 
He  clasped  a  goddess  in  his  arms ; 
And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  tpp ; 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION.  33 

A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mixed  with  bliss, 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  passed  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  decked  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace ; 
But  still  the  worst  remained  behind — 
That  very  face  had  robbed  her  mind. 

Skilled  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee ; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 
Tis  true  she  dressed  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked  at  a  ball  or  race ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  night-caps  wrapped  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend  ? 
Could  any  curtain  lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing? 
In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting ; 
By  day  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 
Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powdered  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 
The  'squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twenty  other  near  relations : 
Jack  sucked  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke ; 
While  all  their  hours  were  passed  between 
Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 

Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows, 
Or  thins  her  lip,  or  points  her  nose : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes  t 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  lace  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now  to  perplex  the  ravelled  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues — 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life — 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower : — 
Lo  !  the  small-pox — whose  horrid  glare 
Levelled  its  terrors  at  the  fair; 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens ; 
The  'squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  ev'n  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam  now  condemned  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old : 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed. 
Humility  displaces  pride ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  dean : 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMA  TION.  33 

No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good-nature  every  day : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


A  NEW  SIMILE 

IN    THE     MANNER    OF    SWIFT. 
I765- 

ONG  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind — 
The  modern  scribbling  kind  who 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite — 

Till  reading,  I  forget  what  day  on, 

A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon,* 

I  think  I  met  with  something  there 

To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 

But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious — 

First  please  to  turn  to  God  Mercurius: 

You'll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 

In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth : 

The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 

And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  Pray  observe  his  hat, 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather? 
Why  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather  !  very  right — 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bards  decreed : 
A  just  comparison, — proceed. 

•  A  School  Mythology,  written  by  Andrew  Tooke,    head -muter  of  the 
Charterhouse, 

3— a 


|6  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes ; 
Designed,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air : 
And  here  my  simile  unites — 
For  in  the  modern  poet's  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Filled  with  a  snake-encircled  wand, 
By  classic  authors  termed  Caduceus, 
And  highly  famed  for  several  uses. 
To  wit — most  wondrously  endued, 
No  poppy  water  half  so  good ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore. 
Add  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  helL 

Now  to  apply,  begin  we  then ; 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twined, 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind — 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venomed  bites, 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike  too  both  conduce  to  sleep—- 
This difference  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod, 
With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  elfj 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postscript 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 


Moreover  Mercury  had  a  failing  : 

Well  !  what  of  that  ?  out  with  it— stealing: 

In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 

Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he ; 

But  ev'n  this  deity's  existence 

Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance : 

Our  modern  bards  !  why — what  a  pox 

Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  ? 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  AUTHOR'S  BEDCHAMBER* 

IJHERE  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 
Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  cham- 
pagne, 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane : 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretched  beneath  a  rug : 
A  window  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay : 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  : 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread : 
The  Royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew. 
The  seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  Williamt  showed  his  lamp-black  face. 
The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  ; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  five  cracked  tea-cups  dressed  the  chimney  board: 
A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  1 

*  Goldsmith  intended  this  for  the  beginning  of  a  serio-comic  poem  on  the 
•hifts  and  struggles  of  a  poor  author,  but  never  finished  it, 
f  The  Duke  of  Cumberland. 


GOLDSMITH**  MISCELLANEOUS  PLVMS. 


THE  GIFT. 

TO  IRIS,  IN  BOW  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN — IMITATED 
FROM  THE  FRENCH.* 

| AY,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 
My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver? 
A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 

My  rivals  give — and  let  'em  I 
If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 
I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 

Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion : 
Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 

A  transitory  passion. 
I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 

Not  less  sincere  than  civil — 
I'll  give  thee — ah !  too  charming  maid  I — 

I'll  give  thee — to  the  devil ! 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL.t 

I  HIS  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  ParnelPs  name, 
May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame, 
What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 
That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery  way! 

*  Of  Gercourt. 

t  Dr.  Thomas  Parnell  was  an  Irish  poet  and  divine,  born  1679,  died  1717. 
His  chief  poem  is  the  "  Hermit." 


EPITAPH  Off  DR.  PA  KNELL. 


Celestial  themes  confessed  his  tun-,  ful  aid  ; 
And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid* 
Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below  : 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON.» 

ERE  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  : 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 


THE  HERMIT. 

THE  FOLLOWING  LETTER,  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PRINTER  OF  THE  "  ST. 
JAMES'S  CHRONICLE,"  APPEARED  IN  THAT  PAPER  IN  JUNE,  1767^ 

JIR,  as  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper  con 
troversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as 
concise  as  possible  in  informing  a  correspondent  of  yours, 
that  I  recommended  Blainville's  Travels,  because  I 
thought  the  book  was  a  good  one,  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said  I 
was  told  by  the  bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published;  but 
in  that,  it  seems,  I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not 
extensive  enough  to  set  me  right, 

•  This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  hut,  having 
wasted  his  patrimony,  enlisted  as  a  foot  soldier  Growing  tired  of  that  mode  of 
life  he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  became  a  scribbler  in  the  newspapers,  tie 
translated  Voltaire's  "  Henriade." 

t  He  had  been  accused  in  the  St.  James's  Chronicle  of  imitating  Percy's 
ballad  "The  Friar  of  Orders  Grey.  Both,  probably,  were  indebted  to 
the  old  ballad,  "Gentle  Herdsman."  See  "Legendary  Ballads,"  Warae'i 
"  Chandos  Poeti." 


48  GOTDSWrtrs  MrsCEtLAtfEOVS  POEMS. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having  taken  & 
ballad  I  published  some  time  ago  from  one*  by  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  between 
the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad  is  taken 
from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago;  and  he  (as 
we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles  at  best)  told  me  with  his 
usual  good  humour,  the  next  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  had  taken 
my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shakespeare  into  a  ballad  of  his 
own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  cento,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  and  1 
highly  approved  it.  Such  petty  anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely 
worth  printing  ;  and,  were  it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some 
of  your  correspondents,  the  public  should  never  have  known  that 
he  owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am  obliged  to  his 
friendship  and  learning  for  communications  of  a  much  more  im 
portant  nature. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c., 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

A  BALLAD. 

1765- 

URN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  val« 
With  hospitable  ray ; 

"For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow — 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 

"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 

To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

*  "Tht  Friar  of  Orders  Grey."—"  Reliq.  of  Anc.  fuclrj,"  toL  i.  boo*  4 
No.  18. 


THE  HERMIT.  4, 


"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

1  give  it  with  goodwill. 

"Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  shaie 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring — 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends^ 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neigh b'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 


4*  GOT  V  SMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  pressed,  and  smiled ; 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries — 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe— 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied—- 
With answering  care  opprest ; 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

*  From  better  habitations  spurned, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

"Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

*  And  what  is  friendship  but  a 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep — 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


THE  HERMTT.  4j 


"And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

*  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said  ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view — 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms  : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

•*  And  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried — 

*  Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

u  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray— 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

u  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine 

He  had  but  only  me. 

*  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms^ 
And  felt,  or  feigned  a  flame. 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

u  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

*  In  humble  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  : 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had^ 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

*  And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroled  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

"  The  blossom  op'ning  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

*  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his  ;  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

*  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart» 
I  triumphed  in  his  pain ; 

"Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

a  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay  \ 


THE  HERMIT.  4$ 


"  And  there,  forlorn,  despairing  hid— 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heav'n  !"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast : 

The  wond'ring  fair  one  turned  to  chide— 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  pressed. 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear — 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here^ 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

4<  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  rny  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine  ! 

*  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  hearty 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too.0 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON;* 

A  POETICAL   EPISTLE  TO  LORD  CLARE. 
1765. 

HANKS,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter ; 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy. 

hough  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help  regretting 

o  spoil  such  *  delicate  picture  by  eating : 

•  Imitated  from  Boilean. 


46  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view, 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause.     Don't  I  hear  you  pronounce^ 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce :  I  protest  in  my  turn, 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn.* 

To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch-- 
So I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undressed, 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose : 
'Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Monroe's  A 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the  when. 
There's  Howard,  and  Colley,J  and  Hogarth,  and  Hiff,§ 
I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef. 
There's  my  countryman,  Higgins — Oh  let  him  alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them — their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
An  acquaintance — a  friend,  as  he  called  himself — entered ; 

•  Lord  Clare's  nephew. 

f  Dorothy  Monroe,  *  beautiful  woman,  celebrated  by  Lord  Townsend'j 
lines. 

$  Colman. 
§  An  Irish  author  now  forgotten. 


THE  HAUNCH  OP  VENISON.  4) 

An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 

And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and  me. 

"  What  have  we  got  here  ? — Why  this  is  good  eating  i 

Your  own,  I  suppose— or  is  it  in  waiting?" 

"  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ?"  cried  I  with  a  flounce, 

"I  get  these  things  often" — but  that  was  a  bounce; 

"  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation, 

Are  pleased  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation." 

"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 
"  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way : 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three ; 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wits  will  be  there  j 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner. 
What  say  you — a  pasty  ?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust 
Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end : 
No  stirring,  I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear  friend  !* 
Thus,  snatching  his  hat,  he  brushed  off  like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  lollowed  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  "nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself  ;"* 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty, 
Yet  Johnson  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
U'ere  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogged  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
1  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine ; 
(A  chair-lumbered  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine :) 

*  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Royal  Highness  Henry,  Duke  ol 
Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvenor.     1769. 


48  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried,  "  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with  Thrale  ;* 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors,  like  you  j 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinna — he  owns  to  Panurge :" 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  entered,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top,  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen  ; 
At  the  sides  there  was  spinach,  and  pudding  made  hotj 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was  not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persiau ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round  : 

But  what  vexed  me  most  was  that  d d  Scottish  rogue, 

With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and  his  brogue* 

And  "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 

A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on : 

Pray,  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst, 

But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst" 

"  The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  "if  the  truth  I  may  speak, 

I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week : 

I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small ; 

But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing  at  alL* 

"  O — ho !"  quoth  my  friend,  "  he'll  come  on  in  a  trice, 

He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice ; 

There's  a  pasty" — "A  pasty!"  repeated  the  Jew, 

u  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too." 

*  The  great  brewer  and  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson. 


Of  ^£Atfs-0M  40 


"What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  !"  re-echoed  the  Scot, 

"Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that." 

"We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out; 

"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echoed  about 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delayed, 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  entered  the  maid: 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 

Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night 

But  we  quickly  found  out  —  for  who  could  mistake  her  ? 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker 

And  so  it  fell  out  ;  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  ms  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus  —  but  let  similes  drop  — 

And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  misplaced 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste  ; 
You've  got  an  odd  something  —  a  kind  of  discerning, 
A  relish  —  a  taste  —  sickened  over  by  learning  ; 
At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own  : 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

FROM  THE  "  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.* 

OOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  orav. 


$6 


A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 
And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 
This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 
Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 

The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 
The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad, 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 
But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied, 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


EPILOGUES   AND    PROLOGUES. 

EPILOGUE 

TO   THE    COMEDY    OF    "THE    SISTERS."* 

|]HAT?  five  long  acts — and  all  to  make  us  wiser? 
Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 
Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade ; 

*  By  Charlotte  Lennox,  a  lady  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson 
and  of  Richardson,  the  author  of  "  Pamela. "  She  wrote  the  "Female  Quixote," 
and  several  plays,  &c.  She  was  born  at  New  York,  and  died  1^04.  Johusoa 
(aid  she  was  the  cleverest  woman  of  her  age.  See  "  BoswelL" 


EPILOGUES  AfrD  PROLOGUES.  §i 

— **1 _-   ,  - -  ^ 

Warmed  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage 

Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 

My  life  on't,  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking ; 

Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  of  thinking. 

Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 

What  if  I  give  a  masquerade? — I  will. 

But  how  ?  ay,  there's  the  rub !  [pausing] — I've  got  my  cue ; 

The  world's  a  masquerade  !  the  masquers,  you,  you,  you. 

[To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery. 
Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses  ! 
False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses  I 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on ;  and  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots  in  party-coloured  suits  that  ride  'em. 
There  Hebes,  turned  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore. 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen. 
Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman; 
The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure. 
Thus  'tis  with  all ;  their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  everything — but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  ey    on, 
Who  seems  t'  have  robbed  his  vizor  from  the  lion ; 
Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round  parade, 
Looking  as  who  should  say,  dam'me !  who's  afraid  ? 

\Mimicking 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and  sure  I  am 
You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb. 
Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state; 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume, 
He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 
Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 
And  seems  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 


$2  GOLDSMITtTS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


If  with  a  bribe  ins  candour  you  attack, 

He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip — the  man's  a  black  I 

Yon  critic,  too — but  whither  do  I  run  ? 

If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone ! 

Well  then  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too : 

Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE  TO  "SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER." 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLEY. 

Enter  MRS.  BULKLEY  who  curtseys  very  low  as  beginning  to  speak. 
Then  enter  Miss  (CATLEY,  who  stands  full  before  her  and  curtseys 
to  the  Audience. 

Mrs.  Bui.  Hold,  Ma'am,  your  pardon.    What's  your  business 
here? 

Miss  Cat.  The  Epilogue. 
Mrs.  Bui.  The  Epilogue  ? 
Miss  Cat.  Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Bui.  Sure  you  mistake,  Ma'am.     The  Epilogue,  /bring  it 
Miss  Cat.  Excuse  me,  Ma'am.     The  Author  bid  me  sing  it. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

Mrs.  Bui.    Why,  sure  the  girl's  beside  herself  1   an  Epilogu" 

of  singing, 

\  hopeful  end  indeed  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 
Abides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set — 
Kxcuse  me,  Ma'am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

Miss  Cat.  What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  House  ? 

Mrs.  Bui.  The  House  !— Agreed. 

Miss  Cat.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  Bui.  And  she  whose  party's  largest  shall  proceed, 

.d  first  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree, 

ve  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  lor  me. 


EPILOGUE   TO  "SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER."  53 

They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands: 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What,  no  return?     I  find  too  late,  I  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 

Miss  Cat.  I'm  for  a  different  set. — Old  men,  whose  trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

RECITATIVE. 

Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling^ 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling. 

AIR — COTILLON. 

Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 

Strephon  caught  thy  ravished  eye. 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 
Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  ho, 
Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho. 

[Da,  Capo. 

Mrs.  Bui.  Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit  ; 
Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit 
Ye  travelled  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train, 
Of  French  friseurs,  and  nosegays,  justly  vain, 
Who  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a  year 
To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here— 
Lend  me  your  hands. — O  fatal  news  to  tell, 
Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinel.* 

Miss  Cat.  Ay,  take  your  travellers — travellers  indeed  1 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the  Tweed, 
Where  are  the  chiels  ?     Ah,  ah  !  I  well  discern, 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

AIR. — A  BONNV  YOUNG   LAD  IS  MY  JOCKEY, 

1*11  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 
And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay ; 

A  popular  dancer  at  the  Opera  House,  1773. 


54  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 

When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 
My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Sawney,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey» 
Mrs.  Bui.  Ye  Gamesters,  who  so  eager  in  pursuit, 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute: 
Ye  Jockey  tribe  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 
"  I  hold  the  odds — Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you," 
Ye  barristers  so  fluent  with  grimace, 
"  My  Lord — your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case." 
Doctors,  who  answer  every  misfortuner, 
"  I  wish  I'd  been  called  in  a  little  sooner." 
Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 
Come  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

AIR. — BALLINAMONY. 

Miss  Cat.  Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack, 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woful  attack : 
For — sure  I  don't  wrong  you — you  seldom  are  slack, 
When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back. 
For  you're  always  polite  and  attentive, 
Still  to  amuse  us  inventive. 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive. 

Your  hands  and  your  voices  for  me. 
Mrs.  Bui.  Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  sparring, 
We  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring  ? 

Miss  Cat.  And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  unbroken, 
What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 
Mrs.  Bui.  Agreed. 
Miss  Cat.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  Bui.  And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit 


AN 


AN  EPILOGUE, 

INTENDED  FOR  MRS.  BULKLEY. 

HERE  is  a  place — so  Ariosto  sings,* 
A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things : 
Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assigned  them, 
And  they,  who  lose  their  senses,  there  may  find  them. 

But  where's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age  ? 

The  Moon,  says  he  : — but  I  affirm  the  Stage  :— 

At  least  in  many  things,  I  think,  I  see 

His  lunar,  and  our  mimic  world  agree, 

Both  shine  at  night,  for  but  at  Foote's  alone, 

We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down  : 

Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 

And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 

But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is. 

That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses, 

To  this  strange  spot,  rakes,  macaronies,t  cits, 

Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scattered  wits. 

The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 

Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 

Hither  the  affected  city  dame  advancing, 

Who  sighs  for  operas,  and  dotes  on  dancing, 

Taught  by  our  art  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 

Quits  the  Ballet,  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson, 

The  Gamester,  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 

Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw. 

Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 

Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts, 

The  Mohawk}  too — with  angry  phrases  stored 

As  "  Dam'me,  sir,"  and  "  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword  :*— 

*  See  Ariosto,  canto  34. 

t  A  macaroni  was  a  travelled  fop  of  those  day*. 

j  The  Mohawks  were  the  riotous  bullies  who  traversed  the  streets  of  London 
at  night,  and  thought  injuring  and  insulting  the  passers-by  good  sport.  Ser 
account  of  them  in  the  Tatltr* 


I  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Here  lessoned  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Htre  come  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense — for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser, 
Our  Author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser : 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favour  place, 
On  sentimental  Queens  and  Lords  in  lace  ? 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet  or  garter, 
How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter  ? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment ;  the  creature  . 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  nature. 
Yes,  he's  far  gone  : — and  yet  some  pity  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics. 


PROLOGUE  TO  "ZOBEIDE,"  A  TRAGEDY. 

Written  by  Joseph  Cradock  ;  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Cwent  Garden, 

|N  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore 
The  distant  climates  and  the  savage  shore — 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer,* 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  her*— 

While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling,t 

Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently — go  simpling ; 

Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 

And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 

With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 

He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading  j 

Yet  ere  he  lands  he's  ordered  me  before 

To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 

Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost  I 

This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 

'  Cook  and  Green.  t  Burke  and  Solander, 


PROLOGUE  TO  "  ZOBEIDE*  57 

Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under ! 

Yon  ill-foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder; 

[Upper  Gallery. 
rhere  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen  'em — 

[Pit. 
Here  trees  of  stately  size — and  turtles  in  'em — 

[Balconies. 

Here  ill-conditioned  oranges  abound —  [Stage. 

An.!  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground  :     [Tasting  them. 
The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear  : 
I  hear  a"  hissing— there  are  serpents  here  I 
O,  there  the  natives  are — a  dreadful  race, 
The  men  have  tails,  the  women  paint  the  face  ; 
No  doubt  they're  all  barbarians — yes,  'tis  so  j 
I'll  try  to  make  palaver  with  them  though  ; 
'Tis  best,  however,  keeping  at  a  distance. 
Good  savages,  our  Captain  craves  assistance  ! 
Our  ship's  well  stored — in  yonder  creek  we've  laid  her, 
His  honour  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure ;  lend  him  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from  far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What?  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample? 
I'd  best  step  back — and  order  up  a  sample. 


EPILOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  LEE  LEWES, 

IN   THE   CHARACTER   OF    HARLEQUIN,    AT   HIS    BENEFIT. 

[OLD  !  Prompter,  hold  !  a  word  before  your  nonsense 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said, 
My  heels  eclipsed  the  honours  of  my  head ; 

That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest, 

Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest,          [Takes  off  his 


?*  GOLDSMITH" 'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 

Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth  ; 

In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 

The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  woe  that  weeps. 

How  hast  thou  filled  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 

Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursued  ! 

Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 

Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses  : 

Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  demons  rise, 

And  from  above  the  dangling  deities  ; 

And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallowed  crew  ? 

May  rosined  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do  1 

No — I  will  act,  I'll  vindicate  the  stage  : 

Shakespeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 

Off !  off !  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns, 

The  maddening  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 

Oh  !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme ;  [dream." 

"  Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  ! — soft — 'twas  but  a 

Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating ; 

If  I  cease  Harlequin  I  cease  from  eating. 

'Twas  thus  that  .^Esop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 

Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 

Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 

And  cavilled  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 

"  The  deuce  confound,"  he  cries,  "  these  drumstick  shanks, 

They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks ; 

They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead  I 

But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 

How  piercing  is  that  eye ;  how  sleek  that  brow  I 

My  horns!  I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now." 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonished,  to  his  view, 

Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  drewj 

Hoicks  !  hark  forward  !  came  thund'ring  from  behind, 

He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind : 

He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways: 

Jie  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maje. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ••  ZOBEIDE  n  59 

At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 
Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 
And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself,  like  me. 

{Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  door. 


THE  LOGICIANS   REFUTED. 

IN    IMITATION    OF    DEAN    SWIFT. 

OGICIANS  have  but  ill  defined 


As  rational  the  human  mind ; 
Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 
But  let  fhem  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglecius,* 

By  ratiocinations  specious, 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division, 

Homo  est  ratione  preditum — 

But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  'emj 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain ; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 

Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature. 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide, 

Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em— • 

Deus  est  anima  brutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 

At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute. 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery? 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery? 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfmed, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind ; 

•  A  Polish  Jesuit  born  1562.  died  1618,  who  wrote  a  Treatise  on  Logic  used 
at  the  foreign  universities. 


bo  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport, 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court ; 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend,  a  foe ; 

They  never  importune  his  Grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob  :* 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Paternoster  Row ; 

No  jugglers,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds  j 

No  single  brute  his  fellows  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  other's  throats  for  pay, 

Of  beasts  it  is  confessed,  the  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape. 

Like  man  he  imitates  each  fashion, 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion : 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 

A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 

Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 

Upon  the  minister  of  state ; 

View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 

Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors : 

He  promises  with  equal  air, 

And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 

He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators, 

At  court,  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 

Their  master's  manners  still  contract — 

And  footmen,  lords,  and  dukes  can  act. 

Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  awd 

Behave  alike — for  all  ape  alL 

•  Sir  Robert  Walpol* 


AN  ELEGY  TO  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

]OOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise, 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please 

With  manners  wondrous  winning; 
And  never  followed  wicked  ways— 

Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size ; 
She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew— 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  followed  her—- 
When she  has  walked  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead-* 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 
For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 

had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more— • 
§he  had  not  died  to-day. 


62  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  A   BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH   STRUCK  BLIND 
BY  LIGHTNING. 

IMITATED   FROM   THE   SPANISH. 

UMINE  Aeon  dextro  capta  est  Leonida  sinistro, 

Et  poterat  forma  vincere  uterque  Deos. 
Parve  puer,  lumen  quod  habes  concede  puellae : 
Sic  tu  ccecus  Amor  sic  erit,  ilia  Venus. 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH   STRUCK   BLIND 
BY  LIGHTNING. 

URE  'twas  by  Providence  designed, 

Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 
That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus'*  fate. 


A  SONNET. 

EEPING,  murmuring,  complaining^ 

Lost  to  ev'ry  gay  delight ; 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning, 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection  ? 

Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  ? 
Had  Myra  follow'd  my  direction, 

She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 

•  Narcissus  fell  in  love  with  bis  own  image  in  a  brook,  and  died  of  self-love; 


SONGS.  63 

SONG  FROM  THE  "VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD." 

ON   WOMAN. 

fHEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 


SONG.» 

Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer*  but  omitted 
because  the  actress  who  played  Miss  Hardcastle  did  not  sing. 

|;H  me !  when  shall  I  marry  me? 

Lovers  are  plenty  but  foil  to  relieve  me, 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 
Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me; 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner ! 

Not  a  look,  not  a  smile  shall  my  passion  discover} 
She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 

Makes  but  a  penitent  and  loses  a  lover. 


RETALIATION. 

PRINTED   IN    1774,    AFTER   THE   AUTHOR'S   DEATH 

[R.  GOLDSMITH  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally 
dined  at  the  St.  James's  Coffee-House. — One  day  it  was 
proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on  him.     His  country,  dia- 
lect, and  person  furnished  subjects  of  witticism.      He 
was  called  on  for  RETALIATION,  and  at  their  next  meeting  pro- 
duced the  following  poem. 

*  This  song  Goldsmith  used  to  sing  to  a  pretty  Irish  air,  called  "Th« 
Hutooun  of  Ballamaguiry." 


6*  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

OF  old,  when  Scarron*  his  companions  invited, 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united: 

If  our  landlordt  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the  best  dirh % 

Our  DeanJ  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 

Our  Burke§  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains ; 

Our  Will ||  shall  be  wild  fowl  of  excellent  flavour, 

And  DicklT  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savour; 

Our  Cumberland's**  sweet-bread  its  place  shall  obtain, 

And  Douglastt  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  j 

Our  Garrick'sJ|  a  salad — for  in  him  we  see 

Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree; 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 

That  Ridge§§  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds||||  is  lamb; 

That  Hickey'slIIF  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 

Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 

Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 

Here,  waiter,  more  wine ;  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able^ 

Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 

Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

*  Paul  Scarron  was  a  popular  French  author  ;  the  husband  of  the  celebrated 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  He  was  extremely  poor,  and  the  feasts  described 
by  Goldsmith  were  his  mode  of  entertaining  his  friends.  Scarron  was  born 
1610,  died  1660. 

+  The  landlord  of  the  coffee-house. 

J  Dr.  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry. 

§  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke,  the  celebrated  orator. 

II  Mr.  William  Burke,  a  relation  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  M.P.  for  Bed  win. 
Secretary  to  General  Conway. 

11  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  youngest  brother  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  Recorder  of 
Bristol. 

**  The  dramatist. 

ft  Dr.  Douglas,  canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

JJ  The  celebrated  actor. 

§§  John  Ridge,  a  barrister  in  the  Irish  court*, 

111!  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

\^  An  Irish  lawyer. 


RETALIATION.  6$ 


Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth  ; 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks,  I  could  not  find  them  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat, 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend*  to  lend  him  a  vote  ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convin.ing,  while  they  thought  of  dining. 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit: 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right,  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in'ts 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong  ; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam — 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas  !  he  had  none  ; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard, t  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at* 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim ! 
Now  breaking  a  jest£ — and  now  breaking  a  limb! 

*  Thomas  Townshend,  afterwards  Lord  Sydney, 

t  Richard  Burke. 

J  He  had  recently  fractured  his  arm.  § 


66  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball ; 

Now  teasing  and  vexing — yet  laughing  at  all  I 

In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 

That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old  Nick; 

But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 

As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  arCk 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  I 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  fao  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feeling;,  that  folly  grows  proud  J 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own* 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few^ 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks  i 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines. 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  feared  for  your  safety,  I  feared  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds*  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenrickst  shall  lecture— 

*  The  Rev.  Dr.  Dodd,  a  popular  preacher,  who  was  hung  for  forgery. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern  under  the  title  o! 
"  The  School  of  Shakespeare"  lie  was  a  man  of  no  principle;  he  had  severely 
libelled  Goldsmith. 


RETALIATION.  67 


Macpherson*  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 

Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile : 

New  Lauderst  and  Bowers!  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 

No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  ;§ 

Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 

And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 
As  an  actor  confessed  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  hearty 
The  man  had  his  failings — a  dupe  to  his  art 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a-day : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please. 

*  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  about  whom  disputes  were  then  raging  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  his  edition  of  Ossian's  Poems. 

t  Will  Lauder,  a  Scotch  schoolmaster,  attempted  fraudulently,  by  translat- 
ing portions  of  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost  "into  Latin  and  interpolating  ihein 
with  the  "Adamus  Exul "  of  Grotius,  &c.,  &c.,  to  make  it  appear  full  ol 
plagiarisms.  Dr.  Douglas  detected  and  exposed  this  imposition,  and  L)r. 
Johnson,  who  had  been  deceived  by  it,  made  Lauder  confess  and  apologise. 

£  Bower  was  a  Scotch  Jesuit,  who  wrote  and  published  a  pamphlet  calltd 
"Motives  of  Conversion  from  Popery  to  Protestantism."  Dr.  Douglas  ex 
amined  this  pamphlet  and  convicted  Bower  of  gross  falsehood  and  imposture  in 
his  statement. 

§  Dr.  Douglas  being  supposed  dead. 

I— • 


68  GOLDSMITH* S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,*  ye  Woodfallst  so  grave, 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave ! 

How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 

While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  bepraised  1 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies  : 

Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will, 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good -nature; 
He  cherished  his  friend,  and  he  relished  a  bumper, 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 
I  answer  no,  no — for  he  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  ah,  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come  tell  it.  and  burn  ye, 
He  was — could  he  help  it  ? — a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland : 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart ; 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing; 

*  Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  "False  Delicacy,"  -'Word  to  the  Wise,' 
"Clementina,"  "  School  for  Wives,"  &c.,  &c. 
t  Mr.  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chronicle. 


POSTSCRfPT.  69 


When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuft 

POSTSCRIPT. 

A  FTF.R  the  fourth  edition  of  this  Poem  was  printed,  the  publishei 
received  the  following  epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoordt  from  a  friend 
ol  the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

HERE  Whitefoord  reclines,  and  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man  : 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  ! 
Who  relished  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere ; 
A  stranger  to  flatt'ry,  a  stranger  to  fear  4 
Who  scattered  around  wit  and  humour  at  will; 
Whose  daily  don  mots  half  a  column  might  fill ; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free ; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas  i  that  so  lib'ral  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined  I 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  "  if  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar ;" 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  J  confess'd  him  a^wit 

Ye  newspaper  witlings  !  ye  pert  scribbling  folks  I 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb ; 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 

*  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  so  deaf,  that  he  was  obliged  to  use  an  ear- 
trumpet  in  company. 

t  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays.  He  was  so  no- 
torious a  punster,  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  be  with 
him  without  being  infected  with  the  itch  of  punning. 

J  Mr.  H.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  t.he  Public  Advertiser. 


70  COLDSMlTfTS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 
Cross-readings,  ship-news,  and  mistakes  of  the  press* 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I'd  almost  said  wit. 
This  debt  to  thy  mem'ry  I  cannot  refuse, 
"Thou  best-humoured  man  with  the  worst-humoured  Muse.* 


BURLESQUE   ELEGY  ON  A  RIGHT   HONOURABLE 
PERSON. 

FROM   THE   "CITIZEN   OF  THE   WORLD." 

AM  amazed  that  none  have  yet  found  out  the  secret 
of  flattering  the  worthless,  and  y*5t  of  preserving  a  safe 
conscience.  I  have  often  wished  for  some  method 
by  which  a  man  might  do  himself  and  his  deceased 
patron  justice,  without  being  under  the  hateful  reproach  of  self- 
conviction.  After  long  lucubration  I  have  hit  upon  such  an 
expedient,  and  send  you  a  specimen  of  a  poem  upon  the 
decease  of  a  great  man,  in  which  the  flattery  is  perfectly  fine,  and 
yet  the  poet  perfectly  innocent." 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF  THE   RIGHT   HONOURABLE  -  —  • 

E  muses,  pour  the  pitying  tear 
For  Pollio  snatched  away : 
Oh,  had  he  lived  another  year- 
He  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oh,  were  he  born  to  bless  mankind 

In  virtuous  times  of  yore, 
Heroes  themselves  had  falPn  behind— 

Whene'er  he  went  before. 

•  Mr.  Whitefoord  sent  humorous  pieces  under  those  titles  to  the  PutSt 

Advertiser. 


BVRL&ZQVE 


How  sad  the  groves  and  plains  appear, 

And  sympathetic  sheep  : 
Ev'n  pitying  hills  would  drop  a  tear—- 

If hills  could  learn  to  weep. 

His  bounty  in  exalted  strain 
Each  bard  may  well  display: 

Since  none  implored  relief  in  vain—- 
That went  relieved  away. 

And  hark  !  I  hear  the  tuneful  throng 

His  obsequies  forbid  : 
He  still  shall  live,  shall  live  as  long— 

As  ever  dead  man  did. 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNVR. 

THIS   IS   A   POEM  !   THIS    IS   A   COPY   OF   VERSES. 

[JOUR  mandate  I  got — 
You  may  all  go  to  pot ! 
Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You'd  have  sent  before  night. 

As  I  hope  to  be  saved, 

I  put  off  being  shaved, 

For  I  could  not  make  bold, 

While  the  matter  was  cold, 

To  meddle  in  suds, 

Or  to  put  on  my  duds ; 

So  tell  Horneck  and  Nesbito, 

And  Baker  and  his  bit, 

And  Kauffman*  beside, 

And  the  Jessamy  bride,t 

With  the  rest  of  the  crew 

The  Reynoldses  two, 

•  Angelica  Kauffman.  t  Miss  Mary  Horneck. 


y *  Got  nsMTTtfs  MisC£LiAtf£o  tss  POEMS. 

Little  Comedy's*  face, 
And  the  Captaint  in  lace. 
— (By-the-by,  you  may  tell  him 
I  have  something  to  sell  him  j 
Of  use,  I  insist, 
When  he  comes  to  enlist 
Your  worships  must  know 
That  a  few  days  ago, 
An  order  went  out, 
For  the  foot-guards  so  stout 
To  wear  tails  in  high  taste- 
Twelve  inches  at  least : 
Now  I've  got  him  a  scale 
To  measure  each  tail ; 
To  lengthen  a  short  tail, 
And  a  long  one  to  curtail.) 
Yet  hovr  can  I,  when  vext, 
Thus  stray  from  my  text 
Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew, 
For  sending  so  late 
To  one  of  my  state. 
But  'tis  Reynolds's  way 
From  wisdom  to  stray, 
And  Angelica's^  whim 
To  be  frolic  like  him — 

But,  alas  !  your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be  wiser, 
When  both  have  been  spoiled  in  to-day's  Advertiser  1\ 

•  Miss  Catherine  Horneck,  afterwards  Mrs.  Bunbury. 

•f  Ensign  Horneck. 

%  Angelica  Kauffman  was  born  at  Chur,  in  Switzerland,  1742.  She  was  a  cele- 
brated female  artist,  and  was  one  of  the  original  thirty-six  members  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  A  large  allegorical  painting  of  hers,  called  "  Religion  attended 
by  the  Graces,"  is  exhibited  now  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum  Galleries. 
Angelica  married  Antonio  Zucchi,  and  died  at  Rome,  1807. 

§  The  allusion  is  to  a  high  compliment  paid  to  the  two  artists  in  tbr  Adve* 
#••* 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION.  73 


ANSWER   TO   AN   INVITATION  TO  PASS   THE 
CHRISTMAS  AT  BARTON.* 

|IRST  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true, 
The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be — loo ; 
All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure, 
And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fixed  in  the  centre. 
Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I  inwardly  damn 
At  never  once  finding  a  visit  from  Pam. 
I  lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool, 
While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool ; 
I  fret  in  my  gizzard — yet  cautious  and  sly, 
I  wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I : 
Yet  still  they  sit  snug;  not  a  creature  will  aim, 
By  losing  their  money,  to  venture  at  fame. 
Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I  scold, 
Tis  in  vain  that  I  flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold  j 
All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass : 
"  What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury  ?"     "  I,  sir  ?  I  pass." 
"  Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck  ?  Take  courage,  come,  do  P 
"  Who — I  ?  Let  me  see,  sir ;  why,  I  must  pass,  too." 
Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I  fret  like  the  Devil, 
To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil ; 
Yet  still  I  sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 
Till,  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a  lion, 
I  venture  at  all,  while  my  avarice  regards 
The  whole  pool  as  my  own.     "  Come,  give  me  five  cards." 
"  Well  done  !"  cry  the  ladies ;  "  ah  1  Doctor,  that's  good—- 
The pool's  very  rich.     Ah  !  the  Doctor  is  loo'd." 
Thus  foil'd  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplext, 
I  ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that's  next 
"  Pray,  ma'am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice ; 
Don't  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  for't  twice?" 

•  TO  Mrs.  Bunbury. 


74  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"I  advise,"  cries  the  lady,  "to  try  it,  I  own — 

Ah  !  the  Doctor  is  loo'd  :  come,  Doctor,  put  down." 

Thus  playing  and  playing,  I  still  grow  more  eager, 

And  so  bold,  and  so  bold,  I'm  at  last  a  bold  beggar. 

Now,  ladies,  I  ask — if  law  matters  you're  skill'd  in, 

Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come  before  Fielding? 

For,  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a  straw, 

May  well  be  called  picking  of  pockets  in  law  j 

And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I  now  charge  ye, 

Is,  by  Quinto  Elizabeth — death  without  clergy. 

What  justice  !  when  both  to  the  Old  Bailey  brought ; 

By  the  gods  !  I'll  enjoy  it,  though  'tis  but  in  thought 

Both  are  placed  at  the  bar  with  all  proper  decorum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel  and  nosegays  before  'em  ; 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that, 

But  the  Judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat 

When  uncovered,  a  buzz  of  inquiry  runs  round  : 

"  Pray,  what  are  their  crimes  ?"      "  They've  been  pilfering  found." 

"  But,  pray,  whom  have  they  pilfered  ?"     "  A  Doctor,  I  hear." 

"  What,  that  solemn-faced,  odd  looking  man  that  stands  near?" 

"  The  same."     "  What  a  pity !     How  does  it  surprise  one  : 

Two  handsomer  culprits  I  never  set  eyes  on  !" 

Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me,  with  cringing  and  leering, 

To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 

First,  Sir  Charles  advances,  with  phrases  well  strung  : 

"  Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young." 

"  The  younger  the  worse,"  I  return  him  again  ; 

•'  It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain." 

"  But,  then,  they're  so  handsome  ;  one's  bosom  it  grieves." 

"  What  signifies  handsome  when  people  are  thieves  ?" 

•'  But  where  is  your  justice?  their  cases  are  hard." 

••  What  signifies  justice  ?     I  want  the  reward. 

i  here's  the  parish  of  Edmonton  otfers  forty  pounds  ; 

There's  the  parish  of  St.  Leonard,  Shoreditch,  otiers  torty  pound  3 \ 

There's  the  parish  of  Tjburn  offers  forty  pounds  ; 

i  shall  have  ail  that,  if  i  convict  them." 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION.  75 

"  But  consider  their  case,  it  may  yet  be  your  own ; 
And  see  how  they  kneel :  is  your  heart  made  of  stone  V 
This  moves ;  so,  at  last,  I  agree  to  relent, 
For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  ten  pounds  to  be  spent 

I  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this.     I  tell  you,  you  cannot ; 

it  cuts  deep.     But  now  for  the  rest  of  the  letter  ;  and  next 

but  I  want  room — so  I  believe  I  shall  battle  the   rest   out   at 
Barton  some  day  next  week.     I  don't  value  you  all ! 

O.  G. 


ON  SEEING  A  LADY  PERFORM  IN  A  CERTAIN 
CHARACTER. 

f|OR  you,  bright  fair,  the  Nine  address  their  lays, 
And  tune  my  feeble  voice  to  sing  thy  praise; 
The  heartfelt  power  of  every  charm  divine, 
Who  can  withstand  their  all-commanding  shine  ? 
See  how  she  moves  along  with  every  grace, 
While  soul-bought  tears  steal  down  each  shining  face. 
She  speaks  !  'tis  rapture  all  and  nameless  bliss  ; 
Ye  Gods  !  what  transport  else  compared  to  this? 
As  when,  in  Paphian  groves,  the  Queen  of  Love 
With  fond  complaint  addressed  the  listening  Jove— 
'Twas  joy  and  endless  blisses  all  around. 
And  rocks  forgot  their  hardness  at  the  sound. 
Then  first,  at  last,  even  Jove  was  taken  in 
And  felt  her  charms,  without  disguise,  within. 


LINES  ATTRIBUTED  TO  GOLDSMITH. 

These  lines  appeared  in  the  Morning  Advertiser  of  April  $rd,  1800. 

Ji'EN  have  you  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 
The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display  ; 
When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  meets  the  vjlaze  of  day 


7«  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet,  she  came, 

Youth's  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek : 

I  gazed,  I  sighed,  I  caught  the  tender  flame, 
Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  drooped  with  passion  weak. 


BIRDS. 

From  the  Latin  Lines  ofAddison  ( ' '  Spectator,  "412),  who  remarks  : — "  In  birdt 
IV  often  see  the  male  determined  in  his  courtship  by  the  single  grain  or  tincturt, 
>/  a  feather,  and  never  discovering  any  charms  but  in  the  colour  of  its  species." 

JHASTE  are  their  instincts,  faithful  is  their  fire, 
No  foreign  beauty  tempts  to  false  desire ; 
The  snow-white  vesture,  and  the  glittering  crown, 
The  simple  plumage,  or  the  glossy  down, 

Prompt  not  their  love  :  the  patriot  bird  pursues 

His  well-acquainted  tints,  and  kindred  hues. 

Hence,  through  their  tribes  no  mixed  polluted  flame, 

No  monster  breed  to  mark  the  groves  with  shame  j 

But  the  chaste  blackbird  to  its  partner  true 

Thinks  black  alone  is  beauty's  favourite  hue. 

The  nightingale,  with  mutual  passion  blest, 

Sings  to  its  mate,  and  nightly  charms  the  nest} 

While  the  dark  owl  to  court  his  partner  flies, 

And  owns  his  offspring  in  their  yellow  eyes* 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  SOUTH  AMERICAN  ODE. 

N  all  my  Enna's  beauties  blest, 

Amidst  profusion  still  I  pine ; 
For  though  she  gives  me  up  her  breas^ 
Its  panting  tenant  is  not 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  77 


FROM  SCARRON. 

HITS  when  soft  love  subdues  the  heart 
With  smiling  hopes  and  chilling  fears, 

The  soul  repels  the  aid  of  art, 
And  speaks  in  moments  more  than  years. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  VIDA. 

AY,  heavenly  Muse,  their  youthful  frays  rehearse, 
Begin,  ye  daughters  of  immortal  verse  ; 
Exulting  rocks  have  owned  the  power  of  song, 
And  rivers  listened  as  they  flowed  a!ung. 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.» 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HER  LATE  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE 
PRINCESS    DOWAGER   OF   WALES. 

SPOKEN   AND  SUNG  IN   THE  GREAT  ROOM   IN  SOHO  SQUARE, 
Thursday,  the  2oth  of  February,  1772. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

'HE  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a  compilation 
than  a  poem.     It  was  prepared  for  the  composer  in 
little  more  than  two  days :  and  may  therefore  rather 
be  considered  as  an  industrious  effort  of  gratitude  than 
of  genius. 

*  This  poem  was  first  printed  in  Chalmers'  edition  of  the  "English  Poet-s" 
from  a  copy  given  by  Goldsmith  to  his  friend,  Joseph  Cradock,  Esq.,  author  u 
i'Zobeide,"  a  tragedy. 


;8  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  justice  to  the  composer,  it  may  likewise  be  right  to  inform 
the  public,  that  the  music  was  adapted  in  a  period  of  time  equally 
ihprt 

SPEAKERS— Mr.  Lee  and  Mrs.  Bellamy. 
SINGERS — Mr.  Champnes,  Mr.  Dine,  and  Miss  Jameson. 

THE  MUSIC  PREPARED  AND  ADAPTED  BY  SIGNOR  VENTOi 

PART    I. 

OVERTURE — A  SOLEMN  DIRGK. 
AIR — TRIO. 

RISE,  ye  sons  of  worth,  arise, 

And  waken  every  note  of  woe  ! 
When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skie% 
Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below. 

CHORUS. 
When  truth  and  virtue,  &c. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power, 

The  incense  given  to  kings, 
Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 

Mere  transitory  things. 
The  base  bestow  them ;  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 
But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  joined 
An  equal  dignity  of  mind  j 
When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim ; 
When  wealth,  and  rank,  and  noble  blood, 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good  : 

Then  all  their  trophies  last — and  flattery  turns  to  fame, 

Blest  spirit  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom, 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 
How  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven ! 


THRRNODIA  AUGUST  ALTS. 


Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 
And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born, 

Request  to  be  forgiven  ! 
Alas !  they  never  had  thy  hate ; 

Unmoved,  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood, 
Nor  wanted  man's  opinion  to  be  great 

In  vain,  to  charm  the  ravished  sight, 
A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 
A  thousand  sorrows  urged  thy  end  ; 
Like  some  well-fashioned  arch  thy  patience  stood 
And  purchased  strength  from  its  increasing  load. 
Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  thee  free, 
Affliction  still  is  virtue's  opportunity  1 
Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 

Every  passion  hushed  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying 

In  the  hopes  of  being  blest 
Every  added  pang  she  suffers 

Some  increasing  good  bestows, 
And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

SONG.      BY  A   MAN — AFFETUOSO, 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying,  &c. 

to 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

WOMAN    SPEAKER. 

Yet  ah  1  what  terrors  frowned  upon  her  fate, 

Death,  with  its  formidable  band, 
Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  care, 

Determined  took  their  stand. 
Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 

To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow : 

But,  mischievously  slow, 

robbed  the  relic  and  defaced  the  shrin& 


go  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

With  unavailing  grief, 

Despairing  of  relief, 
Her  weeping  children  round 

Beheld  each  hour 

Death's  growing  power, 
And  trembled  as  he  frowned. 
As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  snore 
The  labouring  ship,  and  hear  the  tempest  roar, 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross,— 
They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 
Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 

The  inevitable  loss. 
Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 
How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall ! 
Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage, 
But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.      BY  A  MAN.      BASSO,  STOCCATO,  SPIRITUOSO, 

When  vice  my  dart  and  scythe  supply, 
How  great  a  King  of  Terrors  I ! 
If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  I 

Fall,  round  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 
Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings, 
If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage ! 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

Yet  let  that  wisdom,  urged  by  her  example, 
Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer : 
Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 
As  a  safe  inn  where  weary  travellers, 
When  they  have  journeyed  through  a  world  of  cares, 
May  put  off  life,  and  be  at  rest  for  ever. 
Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,  and  gloomy  sable?, 
oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity ; 


fHRENODlA  AVGVSTAL1S.  ft, 

The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 

Death,  when  unmasked,  shows  me  a  friendly  face, 

And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance : 

For  as  the  line  of  life  conducts  me  on 

To  Death's  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more  fair 

Tis  Nature's  kind  retreat,  that's  always  open 

To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drained  the  cup 

Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 

In  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 

Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 

Promiscuously  recline : 
Where,  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 
The  beggar's  pouch  and  prince's  purple  lie  t 

May  every  bliss  be  thine  ! 
And,  ah  !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe'er  thy  flight, 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 
May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest ! 
May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest ! 
May  peace,  that  claimed,  while  here,  thy  warmest 
May  blissful,  endless  peace  be  thine  above  1 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN — AMOROSO. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  below, 
Comforter  of  every  woe, 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky  I 
Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear ! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast; 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

Onr  vows  are  heard  !    Long,  long  to  mortal  .eyes, 
Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies  : 
Celestial-like  her  bounty  fell, 
Where  modest  Want  and  patient  Sorrow  dwell, 


Si  GOL&SMtTtrS  MtSCELLAmOVS  fO£MS. 


vv,mr  pass'd  for  Merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  modest  were  supplied, 

Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor, — 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 

And,  oh  !  for  this,  while  sculpture  decks  thy  shrine 

And  art  exhai^ts  profusion  round, 
The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 
There  Faith  shall  come — a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay  I 
And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 
Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  theft 

AIR — CHORUS   POMPOSO. 

Let  us — let  all  the  world  agree, 
To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 


PART     II. 

OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
MAN    SPEAKER. 

FAST  by  that  shore  where  Thames'  translucent  stream 

Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 
U  here,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet's  dream, 

He  forms  a  scene  beyond  Elysium  blest; 

Where  sculptured  elegance  and  native  grace 

Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place; 

While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 

The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green  ; 
While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 
Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 

From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene  I 


TffKSffODIA  AUGUST  A  US. 


There,  sorrowing  by  the  river's  glassy  bed, 

Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complained, 
All  whom  Augusta's  bounty  fed, 

All  whom  her  clemency  sustained  ; 
The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 
The  modest  matron,  clad  in  home-spun  grey,  * 

The  military  boy,  the  orphaned  maid, 
The  shattered  veteran  now  first  dismayed  — 
These  sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

And,  as  they  view  the  towers  of  Kew, 
Call  on  their  mistress  —  now  no  more  —  and  weep. 

CHORUS  —  AFFETUOSO   LARGO. 

Ye  shady  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 

Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fair)'  scenes, 

Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore 

That  she  who  formed  your  beauties  is  no  morei 

HAN   SPEAKER. 

First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 

Whose  callous  hand  had  formed  the  scene, 
Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age, 

With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between  : 
*  And  where,"  he  cried,  "  shall  now  my  babes  have  bread, 

Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  ? 
No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigour  fled, 

Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require  : 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  labourer  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care. 
My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so  : 

Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 
Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 

And  as  my  strength  decayed,  her  bounty  grew." 

WOMAN    SPEAKER. 

In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 
The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

6-f 


GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Clasped  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne* 
By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn ; 
The  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 
Augusta's  care  had  well  supplied. 
"  And,  ah !"  she  cries,  all  wobegone, 

"What  now  remains  for  me? 
Oh  !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair 

To  ask  for  charity  ? 
Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 
And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 

To  succour,  should  I  need. 
But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  mistress  known ; 
She  still  relieved,  nor  sought  my  praise^ 

Contented  with  her  own. 
But  every  day  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song, 
I'll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long." 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I'll  bless, 
My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 

And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 
My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarred,  mangled,  maimed  in  every  part, 
Lopped  of  his  limbs  in  many  a  gallant  right, 
In  nought  entire — except  his  heart : 
Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distressed, 
At  last  the  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast. 
"  Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 
And  wild  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  billowed  main . 


TffKENOtilA  AUGUST AL1S. 


But  every  danger  felt  before, 

The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind's  roar, 

Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay 

Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 

Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the  bravc^ 

Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave ; 

I'll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 

And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost* 

SONG.       BY  A   MAN — BASSO   SPIRITUOSO. 

Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laurelled  field 

To  do  thy  memory  right : 
For  thine  and  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel, 
Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  the  avenging  fight 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

In  innocence  and  youth  complaining, 

Next  appeared  a  lovely  maid ; 
Affliction,  o'er  each  feature  reigning, 

Kindly  came  in  beauty's  aid : 
Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  soul, 
In  sweet  succession  charms  the  senses, 

While  pity  harmonised  the  whole. 
"  The  garland  of  beauty,"  'tis  thus  she  would  say, 

"  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn  ; 
I'll  not  wear  a  garland — Augusta's  away — 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return. 
But,  alas  !  that  return  I  never  shall  see  : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim, 
There  promised  a  lover  to  come — but,  ah  me  ! 

'Twas  death — 'twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that  carat 
But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 

I'll  strip  all  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bioom; 
On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new- blossomed  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb." 


S6  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

SONG.       BY   A   WOMAN — PASTORALE. 

With  garlands  of  beauty  the  Queen  of  the  May 

No  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn  ; 
For  who'd  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 

When  she  is  removed,  and  shall  never  return  ? 
On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  placed, 

We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 
And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new  blossomed  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb* 

CHORUS — ALTRO   MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  placed, 
We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  tears  of  her  country  shall  water  her  tomb. 


AN    ORATORIO. 


1720. 

THE    PERSONS. 


First  Jewish  Prophet. 
Second  Jewish  Prophet. ' 
Israelite h  Woman. 


First  Chaldean  Priest. 
Second  Chaldean  Priest. 
Chaldean  Woman. 


Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 
SCENE — The  Banks  of  the  River  Euphrates,  near  Babylon. 

ACT  I. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 

E  captive  tribes,  that  hourly  *eork  and  weep 

Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deep- 
Suspend  your  woes  awhile,  the  task  suspend, 
And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  friend. 

Insulted,  chained  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 

Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 


AN  ORATORIO.  8? 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 
Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 

To  Him  we  turn  our  eyes  ; 
And  every  added  weight  of  woe 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
And  though  no  temple  richly  drest, 

Nor  sacrifice  are  here — 
We'll  make  His  temple  in  our  breast, 
And  offer  up  a  tear. 

\Thcfirst  Stanza  repeated  by  the  CHORUS 

ISRAELITISH   WOMAN. 
RECITATIVE. 

That  strain  once  more  !  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 
And  brings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes. 
Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  drest  in  flowery  pride, 
Ye  plains  where  Jordan  rolls  its  glassy  tide. 
Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crowned, 
Ye  .Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, 
Those  hills  how  sweet,  that  plain  how  wondrous  fair, 
How  doubly  sweet  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there  I 

AIR. 
O  Memory,  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppressed  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe ; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yet  why  repine  ?    What  though  by  bonds  confined  ? 
Should  bonds  enslave  the  vigour  of  the  mind  ? 


GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 

Ourselves  alone  from  idol  worship  free  ? 

Are  not  this  very  morn  those  feasts  begun 

Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun  ? 

Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 

For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 

And  should  we  mourn  ?    Should  coward  Virtue  fly, 

When  vaunting  Folly  lifts  her  head  on  high  ? 

No !  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more — 

And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

AIR. 

The  triumphs  that  on.  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end ; 
The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain, 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain  t 

As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow  ; 
But  crushed  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyiant  lords  are  near— 
The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mine  ear ; 
Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale — 
Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale ; 
The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declare*— 
Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 

Enter  CHALDEAN  PRIESTS,  attended. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

AIR. 
Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  displaj, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ, 
The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 
And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 


AN  ORATORIO.  89 


SECOND  PRIEST. 
Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  supplies. 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow ; 
The  sun  with  his  splendour  illumines  the  skies, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

AIR. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 
Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure  j 
Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure  ; 
Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A  CHALDEAN  ATTENDANT. 
Or  rather,  Love's  delights  despising, 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising ; 
Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline  ? 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Ill  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  Love  nor  Wine  refusing, 
I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence,  when  joy  should  brighten  o'er  the  land, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band  ? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrung  ? 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung? 
Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along, 
The  day  demands  it ;  sing  us  Sion's  song. 
Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  tuneful  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  ? 


x>  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Chained  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 
To  want,  to  toil,  and  ev'ry  ill  consigned, 
Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 
Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain? 
No,  never !     May  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 
Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth  1 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Rebellious  slaves  !  if  soft  persuasion  fail, 
More  formidable  terrors  Chall  prevail. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Why,  let  them  come ;  one  good  remains  to  cheer— 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  know  no  other  fear. 

\Exeunt  CHAI  DEANS. 
CHORUS  OF  ISRAELITES. 
Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 
On  God's  supporting  breast  reclined  ? 
Stand  fast — and  let  our  tyrants  see 
That  fortitude  is  victory.  \Exeunt, 

ACT  II. 

ISRAELITES  and  CHALDEANS,  as  bcfote. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
O  peace  of  mind,  angelic  guest, 
Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 

Dispense  thy  balmy  store ! 
Wing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the  skie% 
Till  earth  recced  ing  from  our  eyes, 
Shall  vanish  as  we  soar. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 

No  more !     Too  long  has  justice  been  delayed, 
The  king's  command  must  fully  be  obeyed  j 


AN  ORATORIO.  91 


Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favours  offered  at  his  hand — 
Think,  timely  think,  what  ills  remain  behind ; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind, 

AIR. 
Fierce  is  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  furrowed  main, 
And  fierce  the  whirwind  rolling 
O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain. 
But  storms  that  fly 
To  rend  the  sky, 
Every  ill  presaging — 
Less  dreadful  show 
To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarch's  raging, 

ISRAELITISH   WOMAN. 
RECITATIVE. 

Ah  me  !  What  angry  tenors  round  us  grow  ! 

How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threatened  blow  I 

Ye  prophets,  skilled  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 

Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth. 

If  shrinking  thus,  when  frowning  pow'r  appears, 

I  wish  for  life  and  yield  me  to  my  fears ; 

Ah  !  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey  : 

To-morrow's  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away. 

AIR. 
The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way  ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


92  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS 


SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Why  this  delay?  At  length  for  joy  prepare, 
I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise, 
Our  monarch's  fame  the  noblest  theme  supplies  { 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre, 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 

AIR. 

See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling  ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep  ? 
Hence,  intruder  1  we'll  pursue 
Nature  —  a  better  guide  than  you, 

AIR. 

Every  moment  as  it  flows 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes. 
Come  then,  providently  wise, 
Seize  the  debtor  ere  it  flies. 
SECOND  PRIEST 

Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-day  \ 
Alas  !  to-morrow's  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  hush  !  see  foremost  of  the  captiv**  choir, 
The  master  prophet  grasps  his  full-  ton  ei'  lyre. 
Mark  where  he  sits  with  executing  a  ••»•, 
Feels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart  f 


AN  ORATORIO.  93 


See  how  prophetic  rapture  fills  his  form, 
Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm. 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 
Prepares  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 
From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 

Conspiring  nations  come ; 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast ; 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 
The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies  : 

Down  with  her  !  down — down  to  the  ground  \ 
She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust^ 

Before  yon  setting  sun ; 
Serve  her  as  she  has  served  the  just  I 
'Tis  fixed — It  shall  be  done. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

No  more  !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 
The  king  himself  shall  judge,  and  fix  their  doom. 
Unthinking  wretches  !  have  not  you  and  all 
Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  fall  ? 
To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes — 
See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies, 
Deprived  of  sight  and  rankling  in  his  chain  : 
See  where  he  mourns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 
Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 
More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  confined. 

CHORUS  OF  ALL. 
Arise,  all-potent  ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  thy  people's  cause- 
Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  offer  up  unfeigned  applause.  \Exeui\t. 


94  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE,  as  before. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yes,  my  companions,  Heaven's  decrees  are  passed, 
And  our  fixed  empire  shall  for  ever  last : 
In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens  woe — 
In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow  ; 
Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread. 
And  still  our  justice  crush  the  traitor's  head. 

AIR, 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  all 
With  the  ruin  of  all, 
Then  shall  Babylon  fall; 
SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Tis  thus  that  pride  triumphant  rears  the  head— • 
A  little  while  and  all  her  power  is  fled, 
But,  ha  !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain? 
And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  pallid  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 
Alas !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race. 
Fall'n  is  our  King,  and  all  our  fears  are  o' 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 

AIR. 
Ye  wretches  who  by  fortune's  hate 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan— 
Come,  ponder  his  severer  fate, 
And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 


AN  ORATORIO.  95 


FIRST  PROPHET. 
Ye  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guide, 

Awhile  the  bliss  suspend ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride-» 
Like  his,  your  lives  shall  end. 
FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
His  squalid  limbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn  : 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shock  with  ghastly  glare^ 
Those  ill-becoming  rags,  that  matted  hair  ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe^ 
Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  ? 
How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  Lord  of  all, 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  I 

ISRAELITISH    WOMAN. 
AIR. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray ; 
And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 

That  stop  the  huncer's  way. 
Thus  we,  O  Lord,  alike  distrest, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long  : 
Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  opprest 
And  overwhelm  the  strong. 
FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence  that  shout  ?  Good  heavens  !  Amazement  all  t 
See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
'Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round. 
The  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  along ; 
How  low  the  great,  how  feeble  are  the  strong  I 
And  now  behold  the  battlements  recline— 
Q  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  Thine  I 


96  GOLDSMITPTS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

CHORUS  OF  CAPTIVES. 
Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust  s 

Thy  vengeance  be  begun ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just. 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 

All,  all  is  lost     The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails  ! 
Save  us,  O  Lord  !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  praj; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PRIESTS. 

AIR. 

Thrice  happy,  who  in  happy  hour, 
To  Heaven  their  praise  bestow, 
And  own  His  all-consuming  power, 
Before  they  feel  the  blow  I 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Now,  now's  our  time  !  ye  wretches  bold  and  blind. 
Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 
Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before, 
Your  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom,  are  no  more  I 

AIR. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn, 
Of  heaven  alike  and  man  the  foe- 
Heaven,  men,  and  all, 
Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  thee  lowest  of  the  low. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

O  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen  I—- 
Thy fall  more  dreadful  from  delay  I 

Thy  streets  forlorn 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant,  and  vultures  prey. 


AN  ORATORIO.  9} 


SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Such  be  her  fate  I    But  hark  !  how  from  afar 
The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finished  war 
Cyrus,  our  great  restorer,  is  at  hand, 
And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 
Now,  give  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 
And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind  : 
He  comes,  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 
To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  frca 

CHORUS  OF  YOUTHS. 
Rise  to  raptures  past  expressing, 

Sweeter  from  remembered  woes ; 
Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing, 

Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 

CHORUS  OF  VIRGINS. 
Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 

Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train ; 
Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 

Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 

Skilled  in  every  peaceful  art ; 
Who  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 

Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 

THE  LAST  CHORUS. 
But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  our  Father,  Friend, 

Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity ; 
O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end, 

Let  us  and  all  begin,  and  end  in  Thee  I 


98  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS* 


PLAYS. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

A  COMEDY.* 

PREFACE. 

HEN  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  poets  of  the  last 
age,  and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term  genteel 
comedy  was  then  unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more 
was  desired  by  an  audience  than  nature  and  humour,  in  whatever 
walks  of  life  they  were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the 
following  scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would  be  expected  of 
him,  and  therefore  to  delineate  character  has  been  his  principal 
aim.  Those  who  know  anything  of  composition,  are  sensible, 
that  in  pursuing  humour,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  mean ;  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it  in  the 
master  of  a  spunging-house ;  but  in  deference  to  the  public  taste, 
grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was 
retrenched  in  the  representation.  In  deference  also  to  the  judg- 
ment of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular  way,  the  scene  is 
here  restored.  The  author  submits  it  to  the  reader  in  his  closet ; 
and  hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will  not  banish  humour  and 
character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already  done  from  the  French 
theatre.  Indeed,  the  French  comedy  is  now  become  so  very 
elevated  and  sentimental,  that  it  has  not  only  banished  humour 
and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all  spectators  too. 
Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  the  public  for 
the  favourable  reception  which  the  "  Good-Natured  Man"  has  met 

•  This  Comedy  was  represented  for  the  first  time  it  Covent  Garden,  Jan. 
29+  1768.     Dr.  Johnson  spoke  highly  of  it,  and  so  did  Burke. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


99 


with ;  and  to  Mr.  Colman  in  particular,  for  his  kindness  to  it.  It 
may  not  be  improper  to  assure  any  who  shall  hereafter  write  for 
the  theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed  merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient 
passport  to  his  protection. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 
The  cast  of  the  play  as  it  was  first  acted,  1768. 


MEN. 

Dubardieu-     -     -  MR.  HOLTAM. 

Mr.  Honeywood   -  MR.  POWELL. 

Postboy  ....  MR.  QUICK. 

Croaker-    -    -    •  MR.  SHUTER. 

WOMEN. 

Lofty      ....  MR.  WOODWARD. 
Sir  William  Honey  - 
wood  -     •          -  MR.  f!T.ARir«L 

Miss  Richland 
Olivia    -     -     - 

MRS.  BULKI.EY. 
MRS.  MATTOCKS 

Leontine      • 

-  MR.  BENSLEY. 

Mrs.  Croaker  - 

MRS.  PITT. 

Jarvis  -     - 
Butler   -    - 

-  MR.  DUNSTALL. 
-  MR.  GUSHING. 

Garnet  -     -     . 
Landlady    -    - 

MRS.  GRFEN. 
MRS.  WHITE. 

Bailiff  .    - 

•  MR.  R.  SMITH. 

SCENE  —  London, 

PROLOGUE, 
WRITTEN  BY  DR.  JOHNSON  :  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  BENSLEY. 

[RESSED  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind ; 
With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab'ring  train, 
And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain : 
Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint*  may  share, 
This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 
Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 
Tossed  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great 
Distressed  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 
When  one  a  borough  courts,  and  one  the  pit 
The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 
Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same  j 
Disabled  both  to  combat,  or  to  fly, 
Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply. 
Unchecked,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 
As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 
Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 
Jfor  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 


ioo  GOL DSMIT&S  PLAYS. 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
"  This  day  the  powdered  curls  and  golden  coat,* 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  "  begged  a  cobbler's  vote." 
"  This  night  our  wit,"  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
"  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies." 
The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  the  electing  tribe  t 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold ; 
But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE — An  apartment  in  Young  HoneywoocFs  house. 
Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  HONEYWOOD  and  JARVIS. 

Sir  William.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for  this  honest 
bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is  the  best  excuse  for  every 
freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very  angry  too, 
when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so  good,  so  worthy  a  young 
gentleman  as  your  nephew,  my  master.  All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  Wil.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the  world ;  that  is  his 
fault 

Jar.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear  to  him  than  you 
are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since  he  was  a  child. 

Sir  Wit.  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me ;  or  how  can  I  be 
proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart  where  every  sharper  and  coxcomb 
finds  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jar.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good-natured ;  that  he's 
too  much  every  man's  man ;  that  he  laughs  this  minute  with  one, 
and  cries  the  next  with  another  ;  but  whose  instructions  may  he 
thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Not  mine,  sure  ?  My  letters  to  him  during  my  em- 
ployment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that  philosophy  which  might 
prevent,  not  defend  his  errors. 


THE  GOOD-NA  TURED  MAM  ,0 1 


Jar.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,  I'm  sorry  t'.ey  t.in^ht 
him  any  philosophy  at  all ;  it  has  only  served  to  spoil  him.  This 
same  philosophy  is  a  good  horse  in  the  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade 
on  a  journey.  For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention 
tin-  name  on't,  I'm  always  sure  he's  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  IVil.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his  philosophy,  I 
entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good  nature  arises  rather  from  his 
f<-Hrs  of  offending  the  importunate,  than  his  desire  of  making  the 
deserving  happy. 

Jar.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know.  But  to  be  sure,  every- 
body has  it,  that  asks  it. 

Sir  \Vil.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have  been  now  for 
some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  find  them  as 
boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

J>ir.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or  other  for  them 
all.  He  calls  his  extravagance  generosity;  and  his  trusting  every- 
body, universal  benevolence.  It  was  bat  last  week  he  went 
security  for  a  fellow  whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called 
an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu — munificence ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he 
gave  it. 

^ir  WU.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last  effort,  though 
with  very  little  hopes,  to  reclaim  him.  That  very  fellow  has  just 
absconded,  and  I  have  taken  up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention 
is  to  involve  him  in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  him- 
self into  real  calamity;  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to  clap  an 
officer  upon  him,  and  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends  will  co.ue 
to  his  relief. 

Jar.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him  thoroughly  vexed, 
every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to  me ;  yet,  faith,  I  believe  it 
impossible.  I  have  tried  to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these 
three  years ;  but  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear 
me  scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair-dresser. 

Sir  Wil.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however,  and  I'll  go  this 
instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execution;  and  I  don't  despair  of 
succeeding,  as,  by  your  means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities 
of  being  about  him  without  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is, 


eOLDSMfTfTS  PLA  YS. 


Jams,  that  any  man's  goodwill  to  others  should  produce  so  much 
neglect  of  himself  as  to  require  correction  !  Yet  we  must  touch 
his  weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are  some  faults  so 
nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice 
without  eradicating  the  virtue.  \Exit. 

Jar.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honeywood.  It  is  not 
without  reason  that  the  world  allows  thee  to  be  the  best  of  men. 
But  here  comes  his  hopeful  nephew ;  the  strange  good-natured, 
foolish,  open-hearted — And  yet  all  his  faults  are  such,  that  one 
loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my  friends  this 
morning  ? 

Jar.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeyw.  Well,  from  my  acquaintance  then  ? 

Jar.  (Pulling  out  bills.')  A  few  of  our  usual  cards  of  compliment, 
that's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor ;  this  from  your  mercer  ;  and 
this  from  the  little  broker  in  Crooked  Lane.  He  says  he  has  been 
at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeyw.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  I  am  sure  we  were  at  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it 

far.  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeyw.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jar.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to  the  poor 
gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet  I  believe  that  would 
stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at  least. 

Honeyw.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their  mouths  in  the  mean- 
time ?  Must  I  be  cruel,  because  he  happens  to  be  importuuate ; 
and,  to  relieve  his  avarice,  leave  them  to  insupportable  distress? 

Jar.  'Sdeath  !  sir,  the  question  now.  is  how  to  relieve  yourself — 
yourself.  Haven't  I  reason  to  be  out  of  my  senses,  when  1  see 
things  going  at  sixes  and  sevens  ? 

Honeyw.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for  being  out  of  your 
senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow  that  I'm  not  quite  unreasonable  foi 
continuing  in  mine. 

Jar.  You  are  the  only  man  alive  in  your  present  situation  that 


fff£  GOOD-NATURED 


could  do  so.  —  Everything  upon  the  w:iste.  There's  Miss  Richlarui 
and  her  fine  fortune  gone  already,  and  upuu  the  point  of  being 
given  to  your  rival. 

Honeyw.  I'm  no  man's  rival. 

Jar.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit  you  ;  your  own 
fortune  almost  spent  ;  and  nothing  but  pressing  creditors,  false 
friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken  servants  that  your  kindness  has 
made  unfit  for  any  other  family. 

Honeyw,  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for  being;  in  mine. 

Jar.  Soh!  What  will  you  have  done  with  him  that  1  caught 
stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry?  In  the  fact;  I  caught  him  in  liie 
fact. 

Honeyw.  In  the  fact?  If  so,  I  really  think  that  we  should  pay 
him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jar.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog  !  we'll  hang  him, 
if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Honeyw.  No,  jarvis;  it's  enough  that  we  have  lost  what  he  has 
stolen  ;  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of  a  fellow-creature  ! 

Jar.  Very  fine!  well,  here  was  the  footman  just  now,  to  complain 
of  the  butler  :  he  says  he  does  most  work,  and  ought  to  have  most 
wages. 

Honeyw.  That's  but  just;  though  perhaps  here  comes  the  butler 
to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jar.  Ay,  it's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the  scullion  to  the 
privy  councillor.  If  they  have  a  bad  master,  they  keep  quarrelling 
with  him  ;  if  they  have  a  good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with 
one  another. 

Enter  BUTLER,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jonathan  ;  you  must 
part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that's  the  ex  —  ex  —  exposition  of 
the  matter,  sir. 

Honeyw.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what's  his  fault,  good 
Philip  ? 

But.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I  shall  have  my  morals 
corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

Honeyw.  Ha  1  ha  1  he  has  such  a  diverting  way— 


104  GdLfisMifrPs  PLAYS. 


Jnr    Oh,  quite  amusing. 

But.  I  find  my  wine's  a-going,  sir;  and  liquors  don't  go  without 
mouths,  sir  ;  I  hate  a  drunkard,  sir. 

Honey  w.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon  that  another  time  ; 
so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jar.  To  bed  !  let  him  go  to  the  devil. 

But.  Begging  your  honour's  pardon,  and  begging  your  pardon. 
Master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed,  nor  to  the  devil  neither.  I  have 
-enough  to  do  to  mind  my  cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honour,  Mr. 
Croaker  is  below.  I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeyw.  Why  didn't  you  show  him  up,  blockhead? 

But.  Show  him  up,  sir!  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  Up  or  down, 
all's  one  to  .me.  [Exit. 

Jar.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in  this  house  from 
morning  till  night.  He  comes  on  the  old  affair,  I  suppose.  The 
match  between  his  son  that's  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss 
Richland,  the  young  lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Honeyw.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker,  knowing  my  friendship  foi 
the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head  that  I  can  persuade  her  to 
what  I  please. 

Jar.  Ah!  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well  as  she  loves  you, 
we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that  would  set  all  things  to  rights 
again. 

Honeyw.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream.  No,  no  ;  her 
intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than  friendship  —  mere 
friendship.  That  she  is  the  most  lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed 
the  human  heart  with  desire,  I  own.  But  never  let  me  harbour  a 
thought  of  making  her  unhappy,  by  a  connection  with  one  so  un- 
worthy her  merits  as  I  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to 
serve  her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes  ;  and  to  secure  her  happiness, 
though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jar.  Was  ever  the  like  ?   I  want  patience. 

Honeyw.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain  Miss  Richland's 
consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed  with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs. 
Croaker,  his  wife  ?  who,  though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a 
little  opposite  in  their  disposition,  you  know. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  ,05 

Jar.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows  !  the  very  reverse  of  each 
other:  she  all  laugh  and  no  joke;  he  always  complaining  and  never 
sorrowful ;  a  fretful  poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  e\ery  hour 
in  the  four-and-twenty — 

Honeyw.  Hush,  hush  !  he's  coming  up,  he'll  hear  you. 

Jar.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing-bell — 

Honeyw.  Well,  well ;  go,  do. 

Jar.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief;  a  coffin  and  cross 
bones  ;  a  bundle  of  rue  ;  a  sprig  of  deadly  nightshade  ;  a — (Honey- 
wood,  stopping  his  mouth,  at  last  pushes  him  off).  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeyw.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not  entirely  wrong. 
There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croaker's  conversation  that  quite 
depresses  me.  His  very  mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his 
appearance  has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker's 
shop. — Mr.  Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction — 
Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood,  and  many  of 
them.  How  is  this  !  you  look  most  shockingly  to-day,  my  dear 
friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does  not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be 
sure,  if  this  weather  continues — I  say  nothing — But  God  send  wt 
be  all  better  this  day  three  months. 

Honeyw.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though,  I  own,  not  in 
your  apprehensions. 

Croak.  May  be  not.     Indeed,  what  signifies  what  weather  w^ 
have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours  ?  taxes  rising  and  trac* 
falling.     Money  flying  out  of  the  kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming 
into  it.     I  know  at  this  time  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty 
seven  Jesuits  between  Charing  Cross  and  Temple  Bar. 

Hontyw.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or  me,  I  should 
hope. 

Croak.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whom  they  pervert 
in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion  to  lose?  I'm  only  airaiA 
for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeyw.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies,  I  assure  you. 

Croak.  May  be  not  Indeed,  what  signifies  whether  they  be 
perverted  or  no  ?  the  women  in  my  time  w«e  good  for  something. 


i06  GOLDSMfTirS  PLAYS. 

I  have  seen  a  lady  dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufac- 
tures formerly.  But  now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own 
manufacture's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 

Honeyw.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be  practisrd  abroad, 
you  don't  find  them  at  home,  either  with  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or 
Miss  Richland  ? 

Croak.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonised  for  a  saint 
•vhen  she's  dead.  By-the-by,  my  dear  friend,  I  don't  find  this 
match  between  Miss  Richland  and  my  son  much  relished,  either 
by  one  side  or  t'other. 

Honeyw,  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croak.  Ah,  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your  fine  serious  advice 
to  the  young  lady  might  go  far :  I  know  she  has  a  very  exalted 
opinion  of  your  understanding. 

Honeyw.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an  authority  that 
more  properly  belongs  to  yourself? 

Croak.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my  authority  at 
home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they  see  me  come  out  in  the 
morning  thus,  with  a  pleasant  face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry, 
that  all's  well  within.  But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  a  heart 
of  stone.  My  wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one  of  my 
privileges,  that  I'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my  own 
house. 

Honeyw.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side  might  perhaps 
restore  your  authority. 

Croak.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion  !  I  do  rouse  some- 
times. But  what  then?  always  haggling  and  haggling.  A  man  is 
tired  of  getting  the  better  before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  vic- 
tory. 

Honeyw.  It's  a  melancholy  consideration  indeed,  that  our  chief 
comforts  often  produce  our  greatest  anxieties,  and  that  an  increase 
of  our  possessions  is  but  an  inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croak.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  those  were  the  very  words  of  poor 
Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week  before  he  made  away  with  himself. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood,  1  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind 
of  poor  Dick.  Ah,,  there  was  merit  neglected  tor  you !  and  so  true 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  107 

a  friend  !  we  loved  each  other  for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he  never 
asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single  farthing. 

Honeyw.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit  so  rash  an 
action  at  last  ? 

Croak.  I  don't  know ;  some  people  were  malicious  enough  to 
say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me  :  because  we  used  to  meet 
now  and  then  and  open  our  hearts  to  each  other.  To  be  sure  I 
loved  to  hear  him  talk,  and  he  loved  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear 
Dick.  He  used  to  say  that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker ;  and  so  we 
used  to  laugh — Poor  Dick.  [Going  to  cry. 

Honeyw.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croak.  Ah,  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life,  where  we  do 
nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress  and  undress,  get  up  and 
lie  down ;  while  reason,  that  should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side, 
falls  as  fast  asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeyw.  To  say  the  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part  of  life  which 
is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have  past,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 

Croak.  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a  fro  ward  child,  that 
must  be  humoured  and  coaxed  a  little  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then 
all  the  care  is  over. 

Honeyw.  -Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the  vanity  of  our 
existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits.  We  wept  when  we  came 
into  the  world,  and  every  day  tells  us  why. 

Croak.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satisfaction  to  be 
miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine  shan't  lose  the  benefit  of 
such  fine  conversation.  I'll  just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing 
to  show  him  so  much  seriousness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself 
— And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer  on  the  in- 
crease and  progress  of  earthquakes  ?  It  will  amuse  us,  I  promise 
you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late  earthquake  is  coming  round  to 
pay  us  another  visit,  from  London  to  Lisbon,  from  Lisbon  to  the 
Canary  Islands,  from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra,  from  Palmyra 
to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constantinople  back  to  London 
again.  [Exit. 

Honeyw.  Poor  Croaker  !  his  situation  deserves  the  utmost  pity. 
I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits  these  three  days.  Sure,  tp  live 


(68  COLDSMITtrS  PLA  YS. 

upon  such  terms  is  worse  than  death  itself.     And  yet,  when  1 
consider  my  own  situation — a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion, 
friends  in  distress,  the  wish  but  not  the  power  to  serve  them — 
(pausing  and  sighing). 

Enter  BUTLER. 

But.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  Rich- 
and  ;  shall  I  show  them  up  ?  but  they're  showing  up  themselves. 

[Exit. 
Enter  MRS.  CROAKER  and  Miss  HIGHLAND. 

Miss  Rich.  You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croak.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Honeywood,  from 
the  auction.  There  was  the  old  deaf  dowager,  as  usual,  bidding 
like  a  fury  against  herself.  And  then  so  curious  in  antiquities  ! 
herself,  the  most  genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  col- 
lection. 

Honeyw.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness  from  friendship 
makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good-humour:  I  know  you'll 
pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if  he  had  taken 
a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning.  Well,  if  Richland  here  can 
pardon  you,  I  must 

Miss  Rich.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  madam,  that  I  have 
particular  reasons  for  being  disposed  to  refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear,  don't  be  so  ready 
to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Rich.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr.  Honeywood's  long 
friendship  and  mine  should  be  misunderstood. 

Honeyw.  There's  no  answering  for  others,  madam.  But  I  hope 
you'll  never  find  me  presuming  to  offer  more  than  the  most  deli- 
cate friendship  may  readily  allow. 

Miss  Rich.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a  tribute  from  you, 
than  the  most  passionate  professions  from  others. 

Honeyw.  My  own  sentiments,  madam :  friendship  is  a  disin- 
terested commerce  between  equals';  love,  an  abject  intercourse 
between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Mus  Rich.  And  without  a  compliment  I  know  none  more 


THE  GOOD-NA  TURED  MAM  109 

disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship,  than  Mr.  Honey- 
wood. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that  has  more 
friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss  Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody, 
and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise  him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss 
Biddy  Bundle,  she's  his  professed  admirer. 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed !  an  admirer ! — I  did  not  know,  sir,  you 
were  such  a  favourite  there.  But  is  she  seriously  so  handsome? 
Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked  of? 

Honeyw.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to  praise  a  lady's 
beauty,  till  she's  beginning  to  lose  it.  (Smiling.) 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it  seems. 
For,  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  improves  in  making  the 
artificial  one.  Well,  nothing  diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those 
fine,  old,  dressy  things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age  by 
everywhere  exposing  her  person  ;  sticking  herself  up  in  the  front 
of  a  side  box ;  trailing  through  a  minuet  at  Almack's  ;  and  then, 
in  the  public  gardens,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  the 
painted  ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeyw.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies.  While  you, 
perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer  climates  of  youth,  there 
ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on  a  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen 
latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they  must  suffer,  before 
they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic  I  have  seen  one  of  them  fret 
a  whole  morning  at  her  hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 

Honeyw.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried  that  face  at  last 
to  a  very  good  market  This  good-natured  town,  madam,  has 
husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  fit  every  age,  from  fifteen  to 
fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured  creature.  But 
you  know  you're  engaged  with  us  this  morning  upon  a  strolling 
party.  I  want  to  show  Olivia  the  town,  and  the  things :  I 
believe  I  shall  have  business  for  you  for  the  whole  day. 

Honeyw.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appointment  with 
ftlr.  Croaker,  which  it  i*  impossible  to  put  off. 


no  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Mrs.  Croak.  What!  with  my  husband?  then  I'm  resolved  to 
take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must.  You  know  I  never 
laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I  swear  you  have-  put  me  into 
such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find  jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise 
you.  We'll  wait  for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  LEONTINE  and  OLIVIA. 

Leont.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy.  My  denc-.t 
Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  capable  of  sharing  in  then 
amusements,  and  as  cheerful  as  they  are  ! 

Oliv.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful,  when  I  have 
so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear  of  being  detected  by 
this  family,  and  the  apprehension  of  a  censuring  world,  when  I 
must  be  detected — 

Leont.  The  world,  my  love  !  what  can  it  say  ?  At  worst  it  can 
only  say,  that,  being  compelled  by  a  mercenary  guardian  to  em 
brace  a  life  you  disliked,  you  formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with 
the  man  of  your  choice ;  that  you  confided  in  his  honour  and  took 
refuge  in  my  father's  house ;  the  only  one  where  you  could  remain 
without  censure. 

Oliv.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience  and  my  indis- 
cretion ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to  bring  home  a  sister,  and, 
instead  of  a  sister,  bringing  home — 

Leont.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One  that  I  am  con- 
vinced will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  when  she 
comes  to  be  known. 

Oliv.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leont.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  proper  to  make  the 
discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has  been  with  her  aunt  at  Lyons, 
since  she  was  a  child,  and  you  find  every  creature  in  the  family 
takes  you  for  her. 

Oliv.  But  may  not  she  write,  may  not  her  aunt  write  ? 

Leont.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my  sister's  letters 
are  directed  to  me. 

Oliv.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for  whom  you 
know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create  a  suspicion  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  „, 

Leant.  There,  there's  my  master-stroke.  I  have  resolved  not  to 
refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have  consented  to  go  with  my 
father  to  make  her  an  offer  of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Oliv.  Your  heart  and  fortune  ! 

Leant.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.  Can  Olivia  think  so 
meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my  love,  as  to  suppose  I  could  ever  hope 
for  happiness  from  any  but  her  ?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the  force, 
nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the  delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room 
to  suspect  me.  I  only  offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart  I  am  con- 
vinced she  will  refuse ;  as  I  am  confident,  that  without  knowing 
it,  her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Oliv.  Mr.  Honeywood  !  You'll  excuse  my  apprehensions  !  but 
when  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the  balance — 

Leant.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality.  However,  by 
making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming  compliance  with  my  father's 
command  ;  and  perhaps,  upon  her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  consen; 
to  choose  for  myself. 

Oliv.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine,  I  own  I  shall 
envy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses.  I  consider  every  look 
every  expression  of  your  esteem,  as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  foil) 
perhaps  ;  I  allow  it ;  but  it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  whic) 
has  made  an  impression  on  one's  own  heart,  may  be  powerfu 
over  that  of  another. 

Leont.  Don't,  my  life's    treasure,  don't  let  us  make  imaginary 
evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so  many  real  ones  to  encounter 
At  worst,  you  know,   if  Miss   Richland  should  consent,   or   m 
father  refuse  his  pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland  , 
and — 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Where  have  you  been,  boy  ?  I  have  been  seeking  you 
My  friend  Honeywood  here  has  been  saying  such  comfortable 
things.  Ah  !  he's  an  example,  iudeed.  \\  acre  is  he  ?  I  leit  him 
here. 

Leont.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  hear  him  too,  in  the 
next  room;  he's  preparing  to  go  out  with  the  ladies. 

Croak.  Good  gracious !  cau  i  believe  my  eyes  or  my  ears  !   I'm 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  Y5. 


struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and  stunned  with  the  loudness  ol 
his  laugh.  Was  there  ever  such  a  transformation  !  (a  laugh  behind 
the  scenes.  Croaker  mimics  it.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  there  it  goes  !  a  plague 
take  their  balderdash  ;  yet  I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when 
my  precious  wife  was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience,  I  believe 
she  could  spread  a  horse-laugh  through  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle. 

Leant.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a  wife,  sir,  how 
can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending  one  to  me  ? 

Croak.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy,  that  Miss  Rich- 
land's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the  family  ;  one  may  find  com- 
fort  in  the  money  whatever  one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leant.  But,  sir,  though  in  obedience  to  your  desire  I  am  ready 
to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible  she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croak.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A  good  part  of 
Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists  in  a  claim  upon  Govern- 
ment, which  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Lofty,  assures  me  the  Treasury 
will  allow.  One-half  of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will, 
in  case  she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So  if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize 
half  her  fortune  ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine 
girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  if  you  will  listen  to  reason  — 

Croak.  Come  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell  you,  I'm  fixed, 
determined  :  so  now  produce  your  reasons.  When  I'm  determined 
I  always  listen  to  reason,  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leont.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice  was  the  first  re- 
quisite in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croak.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual  choice.  She 
has  her  choice  —  to  marry  you  or  lose  half  her  fortune  :  and  you 
have  your  choice  —  to  marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  without  any 
fortune  at  all. 

Leont.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more  indulgence. 

Croak.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more  obedience  :  be- 
sides, has  not  your  sister  here,  that  never  disobliged  me  in  her 
life,  as  good  a  right  as  you  ?  He's  a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and 
would  take  all  from  you.  But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he  shan't,  for 
fou  shall  have  your  share. 


THE  coob-NA  fUREb  MAM.  1 1 ; 

Oliv.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you'd  be  convinced  that  I  can  never  1»« 
happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune,  which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croak,  Well,  well,  it's  a  good  child,  so  say  no  more  ;  but  come 
with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something  that  will  give  us  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  I  promise  you — old  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker, 
lying  in  state :  I  am  told  he  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse,  and 
becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  oi 
mine,  and  these  are  friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE — Croaker's  House. 
Miss  RICHLAND,  GARNET. 

Miss  Rich.  Olivia  not  his  sister  ?  Olivia  not  Leontine's  sister  ? 
You  amaze  me  ! 

Gar.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am ;  I  had  it  all  from  his  own 
•servant :  I  can  get  anything  from  that  quarter. 

Miss  Rich.  But  how  ?     Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Gar.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead  of  going  to 
Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who  has  been  there  with  her  aunt 
these  ten  years,  he  never  went  farther  than  Paris :  there  he  saw 
and  fell  in  love  with  this  young  lady — by-the-by,  of  a  prodigious 
family. 

Miss  Rich.  And  brought  her  home  to  my  guardian  as  his 
daughter. 

Gar.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he  don't  consent 
to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying  what  a  Scotch  parson 
can  do. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived  me — And  so  de- 
murely as  Olivia  carried  it  too  !  Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  J 
told  her  all  my  secrets ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this 
from  me ! 

Gar.  And  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don't  much  blame  h 
she  was  loth  to  trust  one  with  her  secret:,  th?,t  was  so  very  bad 
keeping  her  own. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the  young  gentleman,  it 


.  14  G6l&SAirf8'S  PLA  VS. 


MVTIS.  preten  !<=  to  make  me  serious  proposals.  My  guardian  and 
t»c  ..re  to  L»c  here  presently,  to  open  the  affair  in  form.  Yoii 
know  I  am  to  lose  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Gar.  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  as  you  are,  in  love  with 
Mr.  Honeywood,  madam — 

Miss  Rich.  How  !  Idiot,  what  do  you  mean  ?  In  love  with 
Mr.  Honeywood  !  Is  this  to  provoke  me  ? 

Gar.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him ;  I  meant  nothing 
more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be  married  ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  no  more  of  this :  as  to  my  guardian  and  h's 
son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to  receive  them  :  I'm  resolved  to 
accept  their  proposal  with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by 
compliance,  and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Gar.  Delicious  !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole  fortune  to 
yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought  so  innocent  a  face  couKl 
cover  so  much  'cuteness. 

Miss  Rich.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  prudence  to  their 
cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have  taught  me  against  them- 
selves. 

Gar.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  employment,  for  here 
they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  CROAKER,  LEONTINE. 

Leon.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon  the  point  of 
putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  question. 

Croak.  Lord  !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears ;  you're  so  plaguy 
shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had  changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we 
must  have  the  half  or  the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  wi-.it 
spirit  you  begin.  Well,  why  don't  you?  Eh!  What?  Wul 
then — I  must,  it  seems— Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I  believe  you 
guess  at  our  business  ;  an  affair  which  my  son  here  comes  to  open, 
that  nearly  concerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be  pleased  with 
anything  that  comes  recommended  by  you. 

Croak.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  opening?  Why 
ion't  you  begin,  I  say?  {To  Leontine. 

Leon.  'Tis  true,  madam — my  father,  madam — has  some  intentions 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM  Its 

— hem — of  explaining  an  affair — which — himself  can  best  explain 
madam. 

Croak.  Yes,  my  dear  ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my  son  ;  it's  all  a 
request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I  will  permit  him  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

/.eon.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam  :  my  father  has  a 
proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists  none  but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croak.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will  never  be  brought 
on.  (Aside).  In  short,  madam,  you  see  before  you  one  that  loves 
you  ;  one  whose  whole  happiness  is  all  in  you. 

Miss  Rich.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your  regard,  sir ;  and  1 
hope  you  can  have  none  of  my  duty. 

Croak.  That's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting  ;  my  love  !  No, 
no,  another  guess  lover  than  I :  there  he  stands,  madam,  his  very 
looks  declare  the  force  of  his  passion — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog  ! 
(Aside).  But  then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping, 
speaking  soliloquies  and  blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy,  ami 
sometimes  absent — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now ;  or  such  a  declaration 
would  have  come  most  properly  from  himself. 

Croak.  Himself!  Madam,  he  would  die  before  he  could  make 
such  a  confession ;  and  if  he  had  not  a  channel  for  his  passion 
through  me,  it  would  ere  now  have  drowned  his  understand- 
ing. 

Miss  Rick.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attractions  in  modest 
diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A  silent  address  is  the 
genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croak.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other  language ; 
silence  is  become  his  mother  tongue. 

Miss  Rich.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it  speaks  very  power- 
fully in  his  favour.  And  yet  I  shall  be  thought  too  forward  in 
making  such  a  confession;  shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

I^ont.  Confusion  !  my  reserve  will  undo  me.  But,  if  modesty 
attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust  her.  I'll  try.  (Aside.}  Don'i 
imagine  from  my  silence,  madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  uf 
the  honour  and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  madam,  tells 

8—2 


1 16  GOLDSMfTlfS  FLA  ML 

me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to  you— he 
admires  you  :  1  adore  you;  and  when  we  come  together,  upon 
my  soul  I  beliive  we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  St. 
James's. 

Miss  Rich.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you  thought  as  you  speak, 
sir 

Leant.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your  dear  self  I  swear. 
Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory?  ask  cowards  if  they  covet 
safety 

Croak.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it 

Leant.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health  ?  ask  misers  if  they 
love  money  ?  ask 

Croak.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense  ?  What's  come  over 
the  boy?  What  signifies  asking,  when  there's  not  a  soul  to  <:ive 
you  an  answer  ?  If  you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  la-iy's 
consent  to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Rich.  Why  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon  ardour  almost 
compels  me — forces  me  to  comply. — And  yet  I'm  afraid  he'll 
despise  a  conquest  gained  with  too  much  ease ;  won't  you,  Mr. 
Leontine  ? 

Leant.  Confusion  !  (Aside.)  Oh,  by  no  means,  madam,  by  no 
means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked  of  force.  There  is  nothing 
I  would  avoid  so  much  as  compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kiml. 
No,  madam,  I  will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
refuse. 

Croak.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  liberty.  It's  a 
match.  You  see  she  says  nothing.  Silence  gives  consent. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider,  sir,  the  cruelt) 
of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croak.  But  I  say  there's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you  know.  Mock- 
head,  that  girls  have  always  a  round-about  way  of  saying  yes 
before  company?  So  get  you  both  gone  together  into  the  next 
room,  and  hang  him  that  interrupts  the  tender  explanation.  Get 
you  gone,  I  say ;  I'll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist — 

Croak.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to  insist  upon 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  117 

knocking  you  down.     Stupid  whelp  !     But  I  don't  wonder  :  the 
boy  takes  entirely  after  his  mother. 

[Exeunt  Miss  HIGHLAND  and  LEONTINE. 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  something,  my  dear,  that 
I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croak.  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croak,  A  letter;  and  as  I  knew  the  hand,  I  ventured  to 
open  it 

Croak.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking  open  my  letters 
should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Pooh  !  it's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons,  and  contains 
good  news  ;  read  it. 

Croak.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here  !  That  sister  of  mine 
has  some  good  qualities,  but  I  could  never  teach  her  to  fold  a 
letter. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Fold  a  fiddlestick  1     Read  what  it  contains. 

CROAKER  (reading). 

"  DEAR  NICK, — An  English  gentleman,  of  large  fortune,  has 
for  some  time  made  private,  though  honourable,  proposals  to  your 
daughter  Olivia.  They  love  each  other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she 
has  consented,  without  letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown 
his  addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  come  every  day,  your 
own  good  sense,  his  large  fortune,  and  family  considerations,  wiH 
induce  you  to  forgive  hex. 

**  Yours  ever, 

"  RACHAEL  CROAKER." 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of  large  for- 
tune !  This  is  good  news,  indeed.  My  heart  never  foretold  me 
of  this.  And  yet  how  slily  the  little  baggage  has  carried  it  since 
she  came  home ;  not  a  word  on't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world. 
Yet  I  thought  I  saw  something  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their  amour,  they 
•han't  conceal  their  wedding ;  that  shall  be  public,  I  am  resolved. 

Croak.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the  most  foolish  part 


n8  GOLDSMTTH'S  PLA  YS. 

of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get  this  woman  to  think  of  the 
most  serious  part  of  the  nuptial  engagement 

Mrs.  Croak.  What !  would  you  have  me  think  of  their  funeral  ? 
But  coma,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you  owe  more  to  me  than  you 
care  to  confess  ? — Would  you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr. 
Lofty,  who  has  undertaken  Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  Treasury, 
but  for  me  ?  Who  was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaintance  at  Lady 
Shabbaroon's  rout?  Who  got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest? 
Is  not  a  back-stairs  favourite,  one  that  can  do  what  he  pleases 
with  those  that  do  what  they  please  !  Is  he  not  an  acquaintance 
that  all  your  groaning  and  lamentation  could  never  have  got  us  ? 

Croak.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you.  And  yet 
•.vhat  amazes  me  is,  that  while  he  is  giving  away  places  to  all  the 
*vorld,  he  can't  get  one  for  himself. 

Mrs.  Croak.  That  perhaps  may  be  owing  to  his  nicety.  Great 
men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

Enter  FRENCH  SERVANT. 

Serv.  An  express  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He  vil  be  vait  upon 
your  honours  instramment  He  be  only  giving  four  five  in- 
struction, read  two  tree  memorial,  call  upon  von  ambassadeur. 
He  vil  be  vid  you  in  one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croak.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an  extensive  de- 
partment !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master  know  that  we  are  ex- 
tremely honoured  by  this  honour.  Was  there  anything  ever  in  a 
nigher  style  of  breeding  ?  All  messages  among  the  great  are  now 
done  by  express. 

Croak.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things  with  more  solem- 
nity, or  claims  more  respect,  than  he.  But  he's  in  the  right  on't 
In  our  bad  world,  respect  is  given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ;  you  were  never 
in  a  plcasanter  place  in  your  life.  Let  us  now  think  of  receiving 
him  with  proper  respect  (a  loud  rapping  at  the  door),  and  there  he 
is,  by  the  thundering  rap. 

Croak.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  !  as  close  upon  the  heels  of  his 
own  express,  as  an  indorsement  upon  the  back  of  a  bill.  Well, 
I'll  leave  you  to  receive  him,  whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia 


THE  GOOD-MATURED  MAN. 


for  intending  to  steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt's  con- 
sent. J  must  seem  to  DC  angry,  of  she  too  may  begin  to  desp'se 
my  authority.  \E*ii. 

Enter  LOFTY,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Loft.  "  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that  teasing  creature 
t.'.c  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at  home.  Damme,  I'll  be  pack- 
horse  to  none  of  them."  My  dear  madam,  I  have  just  snatched  ,i 
moment — '  And  if  the  expresses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them 
be  sent  off;  they're  of  importance,' — madam,  I  ask  a  thousand 
pardons. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  this  honour — 

Loft.  "  And,  Dubardieu !  if  the  person  calls  about  the  commission, 
let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out  As  for  Lord  Cumbercourt's 
itale  request,  it  can  keep  cold  :  you  understand  me," — Madam,  I 
a~v  ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  this  honour — 

'<oft.  "  And  Dubardieu !  if  the  man  comes  from  the  Cornish 
borough,  you  must  do  him,  I  say." — Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand 
pardons.—"  And  if  the  Russian  ambassador  calls;  but  he  will 
scarce  call  to-day,  I  believe." — And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  go 
time  to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honour  of  being  p-  i 
nutted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient  humble  servant. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honour  are  all  mine;  ami 
yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I  detain  you. 

Loft.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are  to  be  atten^~'l. 
Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charmingly  devoted!  Since, dy. 
don't  you  pity  us  poor  creatures  in  affairs?  Thus  it  is  eternal!)  . 
solicited  for  places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courts 
everywhere.  I  know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Excuse  me,  sir.  "  Toils  of  empires  pleasures  are," 
as  Waller  says. 

Loft.  Waller,  Waller,  is  he  of  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name,  sir 

Loft.  Oh,  a  modern !  we  men  of  business  despise  the  modern? ; 
and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time  to  read  them.  Poetrv 
is  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our  wives  and  daughters ;  but  not  for 


GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  YS. 


is.  Why  now,  here  I  stand  that  know  nothing  of  books.  I  say, 
madam,  I  know  nothing  of  books  :  and  yet,  I  believe  upon  land- 
carriage  fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jag-hire,  I  can  talk  my  two 
hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croak,  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Lpfty's  eminence 
in  every  capacity. 

Loft.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush;  I'm  nothing, 
nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ;  a  mere  obscure  gentleman.  To  be 
sure,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  present  ministers  are  pleased  to 
represent  me  as  a  formidable  man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to 
bespatter  me  at  all  their  little  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul,  I 
wonder  what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so  !  Measures,  not  men, 
have  always  been  my  mark  !  and  I  vow,  by  all  that's  honourable, 
my  resentment  has  never  done  the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner 
of  harm  —  that  is  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croak.  What  importance,  and  yet  what  modesty  ! 

Loft.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there  I  own,  I'm  ac- 
cessible to  praise  :  modesty  is  my  foible  :  it  was  so,  the  Duke  of 
Brentford  used  to  say  of  me.  "  I  love  Jack  Lofty,"  he  used  to  say  : 
"  no  man  has  a  finer  knowledge  of  things  ;  quite  a  man  of  informa- 
tion ;  and  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he's  pro- 
digious, he  scouts  them  ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their  faults  ;  too 
nuch  modesty  is  his,"  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  yet  I  dare  say,  you  don't  want  assurance  when 
you  come  to  solicit  for  your  friends. 

Loft.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I'm  in  bronze.  Apropos  !  I  have  just 
been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to  a  certain  personage  ;  we 
must  name  no  names.  When  I  ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam 
Nfo,  no,  I  take  my  friend  by  the  button.  A  fine  girl,  sir  ;  great 
jj.  slice  in  her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest.  Business 
must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary,  her  business 
•nust  be  done,  sir.  That's  my  way,  madam. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Bless  me  !  you  said  all  this  to  the  Secretary  of 
State,  did  you  ? 

Loft.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I  ?  Well,  curse  it,  since 
you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny  it.  It  was  to  the  Secretary. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAff.  ,2| 

Mrs.  Croak.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head  at  once,  not 
applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr.  Honeywood  would  have 
h  ul  us. 

Loft.  Honeywood  !  he  !  he  !  He  was,  indeed,  a  fine  solicitor. 
i  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  happened  to  him? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Poor  dear  man  !  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Loft.  Undone,  madam,  that's  all.  His  creditors  have  taken  him 
into  custody.  A  prisoner  ia  his  own  house. 

Mrs.  Croak.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  I  How  ?  At  this  very 
ume?  I'm  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Loft.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was  immensely 
good-natured.  But  then  I  could  never  find  that  he  had  anything 
in  him. 

Mrs.  Croak.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  excessively  harmless : 
some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull.  For  my  part,  I  always  con- 
cealed my  opinion. 

Loft.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam  ;  the  man  was  dull,  dull  as 
the  last  new  comedy  ;  a  poor  impracticable  creature.  I  tried  onci 
or  twice  to  know  if  he  was  fit  for  business ;  but  he  had  scarci 
talents  to  be  groom-porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs .  Croak.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland  think  of  him 
For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults  she  loves  him. 

Loft.  Loves  him  !  does  she  ?  You  should  cure  her  of  that  by 
all  means.  Let  me  see  ;  what  if  she  were  sent  to  him  this  instant, 
in  his  present  doleful  situation  ?  My  life  for  it,  that  works  her 
cure.  Distress  is  a  perfect  antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join  hei 
ID  the  next  room  ?  Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune. 
an<l  must  not  be  thrown  away.  Upon  my  honour,  madam,  I  have 
a  regard  tor  Miss  Richland  ;  and  rather  than  she  should  be  thrown 
away,  I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  myself. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  OLIVIA  and  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every  reason  to  expeci 
Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did  everything  in  my  power  to  de- 
serve it.  Her  indelicacy  surprises  me. 

Qliv.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  indelicate  in  being  sen- 


12*  GOLDS AfTTfTS  PLAYS. 

sible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear  I  shall  be  the  most  guilty  thini; 
alive. 

Leant.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same  attention  I  used 
to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  practised  to  lessen  it  with  her. 
What  more  could  I  do  ? 

Oliv.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be  done.  We  have 
both  dissembled  too  long. — I  have  always  been  ashamed — I  am 
now  quite  weary  of  it.  Sure  I  could  never  have  undergone  so 
much  for  any  other  but  you. 

Leont.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to  your  kindest 
compliance.  Though  our  friends  should  totally  forsake  us,  Olivia, 
we  can  draw  upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Oliv.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of  humble  happi- 
ness, when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ?  I  may  be  the  favourite  of 
your  father,  it  is  true ;  but  can  it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present 
kindness  to  a  supposed  child  will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver? 

Leont.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will.  As  his  attach- 
ments are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His  own  marriage  w;is  a 
private  one,  as  ours  may  be.  Besides,  I  have  sounded  him  alreadj 
at  a  distance,  and  find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  cur  wish.  Nay, 
by  an  expression  or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am  induced  to 
think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Oliv.  Indeed  1  But  that  would  be  a  happiness  too  great  to  be 
expected. 

Leont.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have  power  over  him ; 
and  I'm  persuaded,  if  you  informed  him  of  our  situation,  that  he 
would  be  disposed  to  pardon  it. 

Oliv.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine,  from  your  last 
scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which  you  find  has  succeeded  mobt 
wretchedly. 

Leont.  And  that's  the  best  reason  for  trying  another. 

Oliv.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leont.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes,  this  way.  Now,  my  dearest 
Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire  within  hearing,  to  come  in  at 
a  proper  time,  either  to  share  your  danger,  or  confirm  your  victory 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  1*3 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her  j  and  yet  not  too  easily  neither. 
It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  decorums  of  resentment  a  little, 
if  it  be  only  to  impress  her  with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olio.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  ! — Might  I  presume,  sir, 
if  I  interrupt  you 

Croak.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it  is  not  a  little 
thing  that  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets  over  little  things. 

Oliv.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I'm  sensible  how  ill  I  deserve  this 
partiality  j  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do 
to  gain  it. 

Croak.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you  little  hussy, 
you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  yours,  on  my  conscience,  I 
could  be  brought  to  forgive  anything,  unless  it  were  a  very  great 
offence  indeed. 

Oliv.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — When  you  know  my  guilt — 
Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I  feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the 
confession. 

Croak.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain,  you  may  spare 
yourself  the  trouble ;  for  I  know  every  syllable  of  the  matter  before 
you  begin.  , 

Oliv.  Indeed !  then  I'm  undone. 

Croak.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match  without  letting 
me  know  it,  did  you  ?  But  I'm  not  worth  being  consulted,  I 
suppose,  when  there's  to  be  a  marriage  in  my  own  family.  No, 
I'm  to  have  no  hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  children.  No,  I'm 
nobody.  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber ;  a  piece  of 
cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner. 

Oliv.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  authority  could 
have  induced  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croak.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more;  I'm  as  little  minded 
as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck  up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth 
till  there  comes  a  thaw — It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  [Aside, 

Oliv.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and  despaired  of  par- 
don, even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it  But  your  severity  shall  never 
abate  my  affection,  as  my  punishment  is  but  justice; 


M4  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Croak.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair  neither,  Livy.  We  ought 
to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Oliv.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir  ?  Can  I  ever  expect 
to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long  deceived  me. 

Croak.  Why,  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you  now,  for  I  forgive 
you  this  very  moment;  I  forgive  you  ail !  and  now  you  ere  indeed 
my  daughter. 

Oliv.  O  transport !  this  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Croak.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  children.  We  have 
been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and  we  can't  expect  boys  and 
girls  to  be  old  before  their  time. 

Oliv.  What  generosity!  but  can  you  forget  the  many  falsehoods, 
the  dissimulation 

Croak.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin  you ;  but  where's 
the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  a  husband  ?  My  wife  and  I  had 
never  been  married,  if  we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Oliv.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put  such  generosity  to 
a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the  partner  of  my  offence  and  folly, 
from  his  native  honour,  and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I 
can  answer  for  him  that 

Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself.  (Kneeling^  Thus, 
sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for  this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes, 
sir,  this  even  exceeds  all  your  former  tenderness.  I  now  can  boast 
the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to  this, 
was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croak.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that  fine  tragedy 
face,  and  flourishing  manner  ?  I  don't  know  what  we  have  to  do 
with  your  gratitude  upon  this  occasion. 

Leont.  How,  sir  !  Is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  when  so  much 
obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure  of  being  grateful  ?  of 
adding  my  thanks  to  my  Olivia's  ?  of  sharing  in  the  transports  that 
you  have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croak.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough  witnout  your  coming 
in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  the 
boy  all  this  day  ;  he  has  got  into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner  all 
this  morning  I 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  If  A  ft.  125 

Ltont.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the  benefit,  is  it  not 
my  duty  to  show  my  joy  ?  is  the  being  admitted  to  your  favour  so 
slight  an  obligation  ?  is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my  Olivia  so 
small  a  blessing  ? 

Croak.  Marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  his  own 
sister  !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his  senses.  His  own  sister  1 

Leont.   My  sister  ! 

O/iv.  Sister  !     How  have  I  been  mistaken  1  [Aside. 

Leont.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this,  I  find.  \Aside. 

Croak.  What  does  the  booby  mean  ?  or  has  he  any  meaning  ? 
£h,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead  you  ? 

Leont.  Mean,  sir — why,  sir — only,  when  my  sister  is  to  be  married, 
that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  marrying  her,  sir,  that  is,  of  giving  her 
away,  sir — I  have  made  a  point  of  it 

Croak.  On,  is  that  all  ?  Give  her  away.  You  have  made  a  point 
>t  it.  Then  you  had  as  good  make  a  point  of  first  giving  away 
yourself,  as  I'm  going  to  prepare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss 
Kichland  this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing  ! 
iVhy,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  I  thought  I  had  made  you  at  least 
is  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Oliv.  Oh  !  yes,  sir ;  very  happy. 

Croak.  Do  you  foresee  anything,  child  ?  You  look  as  if  you  did. 
I  think  if  anything  was  to  be  foreseen,  I  have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as 
mother;  and  yet  I  foresee  nothing.  \Exit. 

LEONTINE  and  OLIVIA. 

Oliv.  What  can  it  mean  ? 

faont.  He  knows  something,  and  yet  for  my  life  I  can't  tell 
A- hat 

Oliv.  It  can't  be  the  connection  between  us,  I'm  pretty  certain. 

Leont.  Whatever  it  be.  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved  to  put  it  out  of 
fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mortification.  I'll  haste  and  prepare 
tor  ou»-  journey  to  Scotland  this  very  evening.  My  friend  Eloney- 
wo^d  'ns  promised  me  his  advice  and  assistance.  I'll  go  to  him 
and  re;*'v;e  our  distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom  ;  and  I  know  so 
muc^  of  his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can't  relieve  OUT  uneasiness, 
he  will  at  least  share  them.  [Exeunt. 


126  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  KS. 

ACT   III. 

SCENE  —  "Young  Honeyivoocfs  House. 
BAILIFF,  HONEYWOOD,  FOLLOWER. 

Bailiff.  "Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men  as  you  in  rm 
rime ;  no  disparagement  of  you  neither  :  men  that  would  go  forty 
guineas  on  a  game  of  -cribbage.  I  challenge  the  town  to  show  a 
man  in  more  genteeler  practice  than  myself. 

Hontywood.  Without  all  question,  Mr .  I  forget  your  name 

sir? 

Bail.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew  ?  he  I  he !  he ! 

Honeyw.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  ? 

Bail.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honey w.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name? 

Bail.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you.  He  !  he  !  he  !  A  jokt 
breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeyw.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a  secret,  perhaps 

Bail.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm  ashamed  to 
tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If  you  can  show  cause,  as  why,  upon 
a  special  capus,  that  I  should  prove  my  name — But,  come,  Timothy 
Twitch  is  my  name.  And  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have  yoi. 
to  say  to  that  ? 

Honeyw.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch,  but  that  ] 
have  a  favour  to  ask,  that's  all. 

Bail.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than  granted,  as  we  sa> 
among  us  that  practise  the  law.  I  have  taken  an  oath  against 
granting  favours.  Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeyw.  But  my  request  will  come  recommended  in  so  strong 
a  manner,  that,  I  believe,  you'll  have  no  scruple  (pulling  out  JiL\ 
purse).  The  thing  is  only  this :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  dis 
charge  this  trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  wouK: 
not  have  the  affair  known  for  the  world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keep- 
ing you,  and  your  good  friend  here,  about  me,  till  the  debt  is  dis 
charged ;  for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bail.  Oh!  that's  another  maxim,  and  altogether  within  my  oath 
For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to  get  anything  by  a  thing,  there'* 
B9  reason  why  all  things  should  not  be  done  m  civility. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  127 

Honeyw.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr.  Twitch;  and  youra 
is  a  necessary  one.  (Gives  him  money.} 

Bail.  Oh!  your  honour;  I  hope  your  honour  takes  nothing 
amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty  in  so  doing.  I'm 
sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentle- 
man, ill  usage.  If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have 
taken  money  not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeyw.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bail.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to  see  a  gentleman 
with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  have  a  tender 
heart  myself.  If  all  that  I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together, 
it  would  make  a — but  no  matter  for  that 

Honeyw.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch.  The  ingratitude  of 
the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of  the  conscious  happiness  of  having 
acted  with  humanity  ourselves. 

Bail.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better  than  gold.  I  love 
humanity.  People  may  say  that  we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity; 
but  I'll  show  you  my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  follower 
here,  little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four  children ;  a  guinea  or  two 
would  be  more  to  him  than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I 
can't  show  him  any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you'll  do  it 
for  me. 

Honeyw.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a  most  powerful 
recommendation,  (Giving  money  to  the  follower?) 

Bail.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you  know  what  to  do  with 
your  money.  But,  to  business:  we  are  to  be  with  you  here  as  your 
friends,  I  suppose.  But  set  in  case  company  comes.— Little  Fiani- 
gan  here,  to  be  sure,  has  a  good  face  ;  a  very  good  face ;  but  then, 
he  is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  Not 
well  in  clothes.  Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Homyw.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without  delay. 
Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeyw.  How  unlucky  !  Detain  her  a  moment.  We  must  im- 
prove my  good  friend  little  Mr.  Flanigan's  appearance  first.  Here, 
let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit  of  my  clothes — quick — the  brown  and 
filver — Do  vou  hear  ? 


[28  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Ser.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the  begging  gentleman  that 
•nakes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good  as  new. 

Honeyw.  The  white  and  gold,  then. 

Ser,  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  because  it  was 
good  for  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand,  then.  The  blue 
md  gold,  then.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan  will  look  best  in  blue. 

[Exit  FLANIGAN. 

Bail.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look  well  in  anything. 
Ah,  if  your  honour  knew  that  bit  of  flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  be 
perfectly  in  love  with  him.  There's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four 
counties  after  a  shy-cock  than  he :  scents  like  a  hound  ;  sticks  like 
a  weasel.  He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black  Queen 
of  Morocco,  when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  (Re-enter  FLANIGAN.) 
Heh  !  ecod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  I  don't  care  if  I  have  a 
suit  from  the  same  place  for  myself. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming.  Dear  Mr.  Twitch, 
I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend  directions  not  to  speak.  As  for  your- 
self, I  know  you  will  say  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bail.  Never  you  fear  me ;  I'll  show  the  lady  that  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another.  One  man  has  one  way 
of  talking,  and  another  man  has  another,  that's  all  the  difference 
between  them. 

Enter  Miss  HIGHLAND  and  her  MAID. 

Miss  Rich.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this  visit  But,  you 
xnow,  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  choosing  my  little  library. 

Honeyw.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary ;  as  it  was  I  that 
was  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs  here.  Two  of  my  very 
good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and  Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit 
without  ceremony, 

Miss  Rich.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be  ?  I  fear  it  is  as 
I  was  informed.  It  must  be  so.  [Aside. 

Bail.  (After  a  pause.)  Pretty  weather;  very  pretty  weather  for 
.he  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Fol.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

ffoneyw.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites  among  the  ladies. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM  129 

My  friends,  madam,  have  been  upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  1 
assure  you.  The  fair  should  in  some  measure  recompense  the 
toils  of  the  brave. 

Miss  Rich.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every  favour.  The 
gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I  presume,  sir  ? 

Honeyw.  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasionally  serve  in  the'fieet, 
madam.  A  dangerous  service  ! 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has  often  surprised  me, 
that  while  we  have  had  so  many  instances  of  bravery  there,  we 
have  had  so  few  of  wit  at  home  to  praise  it 

Honeyw.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have  not  written  as 
our  soldiers  have  fought ;  but  they  have  done  all  they  could,  and 
Hawke  or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a  fine  subject  spoiled 
by  a  dull  writer. 

Honeyw.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against  dull  writers, 
madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest  writer  exceeds  the  most 
rigid  French  critic  who  presumes  to  despise  him. 

Fol.  Damn  the  French,  the  pailez  vous,  and  all  that  belongs  to 
them. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir ! 

Honeyw.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A  true  English 
officer,  madam !  he's  not  contented  with  beating  the  French,  but 
he  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Rich.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not  convince  me 
but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary.  It  was  our  first  adopt- 
ing the  severity  of  French  taste  that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to 
taste  us. 

Bail.  Taste  us  !     By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  devour  us.     Give 

monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be  d d  but  they  come  in  for  a 

bellyful. 

Miss  Rich.  Very  extraordinary,  this  ! 

Fol.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread  rising?  the  parlez 
vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes  the  mutton  fivepence  a  pound  ? 
the  parlez  vous  that  eat  it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  threepence- 
halfpenny  a  pot? 

9 


GOLDSMITH*  S  PLA  Y$, 


i/oneyw.  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues  ;  all  will  be  out.  (Aside) 
Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word,  and  quite  to  the  pur- 
pose. They  draw  a  parallel,  madam,  between  the  mental  taste 
and  that  of  our  senses.  We  are  injured  as  much  by  the  French 
severity  in  the  one,  as  by  the  French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That's 
their  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the  parallel,  yet  I'll 
own,  that  we  should  sometimes  pardon  books,  as  we  do  our 
friends,  that  have  now  and  then  agreeable  absurdities  to  recom- 
mend them. 

Bail.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  king  only  can  pardon,  as  the  law 
says  ;  for,  set  in  case  - 

Honeyw.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir,  I  see  the  whole  drift  of 
your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our  presuming  to  pardon  any  work, 
is  arrogating  a  power  that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power 
to  condemn,  what  writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bail.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus  can  set  him  free 
at  any  time  :  for  set  in  case  - 

Honeyw.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint.  If,  madam,  as 
my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so  careful  of  a  gentleman's 
person,  sure  we  ought  to  be  equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his 
fame. 

Fol.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabbed,  you  know  - 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever,  you  could  not 
improve  the  last  observation.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  it  con- 
clusive. 

Bail.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap  - 

Honeyw.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  instance  to  be  positiv 
For  where  is  the  necessity  of  censuring  works  without  genius, 
which  must  shortly  sink  of  themselves  ?  what  is  it,  but  aiming  an 
unnecessary  blow  against  a  victim  already  under  the  hands  of 
justice  ? 

Bail.  Justice  !  Oh,  by  the  elevens  !  if  you  talk  about  justice,  I 
think  1  am  at  home  there  :  for,  in  a  course  of  law  — 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what  you'd  be  at  per- 
fectly ;  and  I  believe  the  ladv  must  be  sensible  of  the  art  with 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  Jt/AV. 


which  it  is  introduced.     I  suppose  you  perceive  the  meaning, 
madam,  of  his  course  of  law. 

Miss  Rich.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not  I  perceive  only  that  you 
answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has  finished,  and  the  other  before 
he  has  well  begun. 

Bail.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  will  make  the 
matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about  severity,  and  justice,  and 
pardon,  and  the  like  of  they.  Now  to  explain  the  thing  - 

Honeyw.  O  !  curse  your  explanations.  [Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak  with  you  upon 
earnest  business. 

ffoneyw.  That's  lucky.  (Aside).  Dear  madam,  you'll  excuse  me 
and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few  minutes.  There  are  books, 
madam,  to  amuse  you.  Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no 
ceremony  with  such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I 
must.  But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bail.  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Fol.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and  behind. 

[Exeunt  HONEYWOOD,  BAILIFF,  and  FOLLOWER. 

Miss  Rich.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet  ? 

Garn.  Mean,  madam  !  why,  what  should  it  mean,  but  what 
Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see  ?  These  people  he  calls  officers 
are  officers  sure  enough  ;  sheriff's  officers  ;  bailiffs,  madam. 

Miss  Rich.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though  his  perplexities 
are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I  own  there's  something  very 
ridiculous  in  them,  and  a  just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Garn.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder,  madam,  that  the 
lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts  and  set  him  free,  has 
not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought  at  least  to  have  been  here 
before  now.  But  lawyers  are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man  into 
troubles  than  out  of  them. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Sir  Wil.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  setting  him  free,  I 
own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has  totally  unhinged  my  scheme* 


GOLDSMITfTS  PLA  VS. 


to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  find  that,  among  a 
number  of  worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition  of 
real  value  ;  for  there  must  be  some  softer  passion  on  her  side  that 
prompts  this  generosity.  Ha!  here  before  me?  I'll  endeavour 
to  sound  her  affections.  —  Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that  have 
had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman  of  this  house,  I  hope 
you'll  excuse  me  if,  before  I  enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see  your- 
self. 

Miss  Rich.  The  precaution  was  very  unnecessary,  sir.  I  sup- 
pose your  wants  were  only  such  as  my  agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  Wil.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also  willing  you  should  be 
fully  apprised  of  the  character  of  the  gentleman  you  intended  to 
serve. 

Miss  Rich.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill  grace  from  you.  To 
censure  it  after  what  you  have  done,  would  look  like  malice  ;  and 
to  speak  favourably  of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be 
impeaching  your  own.  And,  sure,  his  tenderness,  his  humanity, 
his  universal  friendship,  may  atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  Wil.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is  exerted  in  too  wide 
a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless.  Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water, 
disappears  when  diffused  too  widely.  They  who  pretend  most  to 
this  universal  benevolence  are  either  deceivers  or  dupes,  —  men 
who  desire  to  cover  their  private  ill  nature  by  a  pretended  regard 
for  all  ;  or  men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into  false  feelings,  are 
more  earnest  in  pursuit  of  splendid  than  of  useful  virtues. 

Miss  Rich.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one,  who  has  probably 
been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others,  so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  Wil.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by  folly,  madam,  you  see 
I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing  by  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unnecessary.  I  always 
suspect  those  services  which  are  denied  where  they  are  wanted,  and 
offered,  perhaps,  in  hopes  of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have 
been  given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  Wil.  Thou  amiable  woman  !  I  can  no  longer  contain  the 
expressions  of  my  gratitude  —  my  pleasure.  You  see  before  you  one 
who  has  been  equally  careful  of  his  interest  ;  one,  who  has  for  some 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  133 

time  been  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  onl)  puni^hc.! 
in  lv>Me<:  to  reclaim  him — his  uncle. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  William  Honeywood  !  you  amaze  me.  How 
shall  I  conceal  my  confusion  ?  I  fear,  sir,  you'll  think  I  have  been 
too  forward  in  my  services.  I  confess  I 

Sir  Wil.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam.  I  only  find  myself 
unab't  io  repay  the  obligation.  And  yet,  I  have  been  trying  my 
interest  of  late  to  serve  you.  Having  learned,  madam,  that  you 
had  sortie  demands  upon  Government,  I  have,  though  unasked, 
been  yout  solicitor  there. 

Miss  Ri:ti.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your  intentions.  But 
my  guardian  AOJ  employed  another  gentleman,  who  assures  him  of 
success. 

Sir  Wil.  Wrro"*  the  important  little  man  that  visits  here?  Trust 
me,  madam,  he's  ^uite  contemptible  among  men  in  power,  and 
utterly  unable  to  «o.vc  you.  Mr.  Lofty's  promises  are  much  better 
known  to  people  ot  faohion  than  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Rich.  How  hi*ve  we  been  deceived !  As  sure  as  can  be  here 
he  comes. 

Sir  Wil.  Does  he  ?  Remember  I'm  to  continue  unknown.  My 
return  to  England  has  not  yet  been  made  public.  With  what  im- 
pudence he  enters  I 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Loft.  Let  the  chariot — let  my  chariot  drive  off;  I'll  visit  to  his 
Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland  here  before  me  !  Punctual,  as 
usual,  to  the  calls  of  humanity.  I'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of 
this  kind  should  happen,  especially  to  a  man  I  have  shown  every 
where,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Rich.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of  making  the  misfor 
tunes  of  others  your  own. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man  like  me  do  ?  One 
man  can't  do  everything ;  and  then,  I  do  so  much  in  this  way  every 
day  : — Let  me  see ;  something  considerable  might  be  done  for  him 
by  subscription;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list  I'll  under- 
take to  set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the 
lower  house,  at  my  own  peril. 


134  GOLD  SMITH'S  PLAYS. 


Sir  Wil.  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  probable,  sir,  he  might 
reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful  patronage. 

Loft.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You  know  I  never 
make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried  to  do  something 
with  him  in  the  way  of  business  ;  but,  as  I  often  told  his  uncle, 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  the  man  was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  Wil.  His  uncle  !  then  that  gentleman,  I  suppose,  is  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  yours. 

Loft.  Meaning  me, sir? — -Yes,  madam,  as  I  often  said,  My  dear 
Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would  do  anything,  as  far  as  my 
poor  interest  goes,  to  serve  your  family  ;  but  what  can  be  done  ? 
there's  no  procuring  first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities. 

Miss  Rich.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honeywood  ;  he's 
abroad  in  employment:  he  confided  in  your  judgment,  I  suppose? 

Loft.  Why,  yes,  madam,!  believe  Sir  William  had  some  reason 
to  confide  in  my  judgment  ;  one  little  reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Rich.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Loft.  Why,  madam,  but  let  it  go  no  farther — it  was  I  procured 
him  his  place. 

Sir  Wil.  Did  you,  sir  ? 

Loft,  Either  you  or  I,  sir. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind  indeed. 

Loft.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure;  he  had  some  amusing  quali- 
ties ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast-master  of  a  club,  or  had 
a  better  head. 

Miss  Rich.  A  better  head  ? 

Loft.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull  as  a  choice 
spirit  :  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very  grateful  ;  and  gratitude 
hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  Wil.  He  might  have  reason  perhaps.  His  place  is  pretty 
considerable,  I'm  told. 

Loft.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of  business.  The 
truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a  greater. 

Sir  Wil.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  I'm  told  he's 
much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir  ? 

Loft.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment  ;  but  then  he 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM  135 

wanted  a  something — a  consequence   of  form — a  kind  of  a — i 
believe  the  lady  perceives  my  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Oh,  perfectly  I  you  courtiers  can  do  anything,  I 
nee. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  exchange  ;  we  do 
greater  things  for  one  another  every  day.  Why,  as  thus,  now  :  let 
me  suppose  you  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury  ;  you  have  an  em- 
ployment in  you  that  I  want ;  I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you  want ; 
do  me  here,  do  you  there  ;  interest  of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat, 
done  and  done,  and  it's  over. 

Sir  Wil.  A  thought  strikes  me.  (Aside.)  Now  you  mention 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  madam,  and  as  he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yours,  you'll  be  glad  to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy  ;  I 
had  it  from  a  friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and 
you  may  depend  on  my  information. 

Loft.  The  devil  he  is  !  If  I  had  known  that  we  should  not  have 
been  so  well  acquainted.  [Aside. 

Sir  Wil.  He  is  certainly  returned ;  and  as  this  gentleman  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  service  to  us,  by  introducing 
me  to  him  ;  there  are  some  papers  relative  to  your  affairs  that  re- 
quire despatch,  and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Rich.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a  person  employed  in 
my  affairs  ;  I  know  you'll  serve  us. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. — Sir  William 
shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think  proper  to  command  it 

Sir  Wil.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Loft.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call  upon  me — let 
me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  Wil.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost  for  ever. 

Loft.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be. — rBut  damn  it,  that's 
unfortunate  ;  my  Lord  Grig's  cursed  Pensacola  business  comes  on 
this  very  hour,  and  I'm  engaged  to  attend— another  time — 

Sir  Wil.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Loft.  You  shall  have  it;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a  letter  is  a  ver) 
bad  way  of  going  to  work  :  face  to  face,  that's  my  way. 

Sir  Wil.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  wel)- 


i§6  GOtftSMJTfTS  PLAVS. 

Loft.  Zounds  !  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me  ?  direct  me  in 
the  business  of  office  ?  Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?  who  am  I  ? 

Miss  Rich.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not  so  much  his  as 
mine ;  if  my  commands — but  you  despise  my  power. 

Loft.  Delicate  creature  !  your  commands  could  even  control  a 
debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so  constitutional,  I  am  all 
obedience  and  tranquillity.  He  shall  have  a  letter :  where  is  my 
secretary  ?  Dubardieu  !  and  yet,  I  protest  I  don't  like  this  way  of 
doing  business.  I  think  if  I  spoke  first  to  Sir  William. — But  you 
will  have  it  so.  \_Exit  with  Miss  HIGHLAND. 

Sir  Wil.  (alone.}  Ha,  ha.  ha! — This,  too,  is  one  of  my  nephew's 
hopeful  associates.  O  vanity,  thou  constant  deceiver,  how  do  all 
thy  efforts  to  exalt  serve  but  to  sink  us  !  Thy  false  colourings,  like 
those  employed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that  bloom 
which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I'm  not  displeased  at  this  inter- 
view :  exposing  this  fellow's  impudence  to  the  contempt  it  deserves 
may  be  of  use  to  my  design ;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it  will  be 
of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  JARVIS. 

Sir  Wil.  How  now,  Jarvis,  where's  your  master,  my  nephew  ? 
far.  At  his  wit's  ends,  I  believe  :  he's  scarce  gotten  out  of  one 
scrape,  but  he's  running  his  head  into  another. 
Sir  Wil.  How  so  ? 

Jar.  The  house  has  just  been  cleared  of  the  bailiffs,  and  now 
he's  again  engaging  tooth  and  nail  in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to 
patch  up  a  clandestine  match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the 
house  for  his  sister. 

Sir  Wil.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jar.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young  couple,  it  seems,  are 
just  setting  out  for  Scotland  ;  and  he  supplies  them  with  money  for 
the  journey. 

Sir  Wil.  Money !  how  is  he  able  to  supply  others,  who  has 
icarce  any  for  himself? 

Jar.  Why,  there  it  is  :  he  has  no  money,  that's  true ;  but  then, 
as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in  his  life,  he  has  given  them  a 
bill,  drawn  t\  a  friend  of  his,  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city»  which 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  137 

I  am  to  get  changed ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them 
to  Sc  otland  myself. 

SirWil.  How? 

Jar.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to  take  a  different 
road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call  upon  an  uncle  of  his  that 
lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception 
when  they  return  ;  so  they  have  borrowed  me  from  my  master  as 
ihe  properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  Wil.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A  pleasant  journey, 
Jarvis. 

Jar.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues  on't 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter  and  less  fatiguing  than  you 
imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of  the  young  lady's  family  and 
connections,  whom  I  have  seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered 
that  Miss  Richland  is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nephew  j 
and  will  endeavour,  though,  I  fear,  in  vain,  to  establish  that  con- 
nection. But,  come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished  j 
I'll  let  you  farther  into  my  intentions  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE — Croaker's  House. 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil's  in  me  of  late,  for  running  my  head 
into  such  denies  as  nothing  but  a  genius  like  my  own  could  draw 
me  from.  I  was  formerly  contented  to  husband  out  my  places  and 
pensions  with  some  degree  of  frugality  ;  but,  curse  it,  of  late  I  have 
given  away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than  they  could 
print  the  title-page :  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a  lie  or  two  to  come 
at  a  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell  a  thousand  for  nothing.  Ha  ! 
Honeywood  here  before  me.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set  him 
at  liberty  t 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again.  I  find  my 
concurrence  was  not  necessary  in  your  unfortunate  affairs.  I  ha.d 


138  GOLDSMITITS  PL  A  Y£ 

put  things  in  a  train  to  do  your  business ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeyw.  It  was  unfortunate  indeed,  sir.  But  what  adds  to  my 
uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  my  mis- 
fortune, I  myself  continue  still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Loft.   How  !  not  know  the  friend  that  served  you? 

Honeyw.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Loft.   Inquire. 

Honeyw.  I  ha  ve ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he  chooses  to 
remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must  be  fruitless. 

Loft.   Must  be  fruitless  ! 

Honeyw.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Loft.  Sure  of  that  ? 

Honeyw.  Very  sure. 

Loft.  Then  I'll  be  d d  if  you  shall  ever  know  it  from  me. 

Honeyw.  How  sir? 

Loft.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think  my  rent-roll 
very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast  sums  of  money  to  throw 
away;  I  know  you  do.  The  world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me, 

Honeyw.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no  stranger  to  your 
generosity.  But  where  does  this  tend  ? 

Loft  To  nothing  ;  nothing  in  the  world.  The  town,  to  be  sure, 
when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me  the  subject  of  conversation,  has 
asserted,  that  I  never  yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit. 

Honeyw.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary,  even  from 
yourself. 

Loft.  Yes,  Honeywood:  and  there  are  instances  to  the  contrary, 
that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeyw.   Ha  !  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but  one  question. 

JLoft.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me  no  questions; 
I'll  be  d d  if  I  answer  them. 

Honfyw.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend  !  my  benefactor !  it 
is,  it  mu.st  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted  for  freedom,  for  hor  our. 
Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men,  from  the  beginning  I  suspected  it,  but 
was  afraid  to  return  thanks  j  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem 
ieproach.es. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN.  \y} 

Loft.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr.  Honeywood. 
You  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  assure  you,  sir — Blood,  sir, 
can't  a  man  be  permitted  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings, 
without  all  this  parade  ? 

Honcyiv.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an  action  that  adds  to 
your  honour.  Your  looks,  your  air,  your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Loft.  Confess  it. sir!  fortune  itself,  sir,  shall  never  bring  me  to 
confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have  admitted  you  upon  terms  of 
friendship.  Dont't  let  us  fall  out;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be 
buried  in  oblivion.  You  know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know  I 
do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you  know  I  always  loved  to  be 
a  friend,  and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of 
distance  between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be  more 
familiar. — Indeed  we  must. 

Honeyw.  Heavens!  Can  I  ever  repay  such  friendship?  Is 
there  any  way? — Thou  best  of  men,  can  I  ever  return  the  obliga- 
tion ? 

Loft.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle  !  But  I  see  your  heart  is 
labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be  grateful.  It  would  be 
cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeyw.   How  !  teach  me  the  manner.     Is  there  any  way  ? 

Loft.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes,  my  friend,  you 
shall  know  it — I'm  in  love. 

Honeyiv.  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Loft.  Nobody  so  well. 

Honeyiv.  In  what  manner  ?     I'm  all  impatience. 

Loft.  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeyiv.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your  favour  ? 

Loft.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  interest,  I  asure 
you  :  Miss  Richland. 

Honeyw.   Miss  Richland  ! 

Loft.  Yes,  Miss  Richland .  She  has  struck  the  blow  up  to  the 
hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Honeyw.  Heavens!  was  ever  anything  more  unfortunate  ?  It 
is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Loft.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !    And  yet  I  can  endure  it,  till  you 


140  GOLDSMITH'S  FLA  YS. 

have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me.     Between  ourselves,  I  think 
she  likes  me.     I'm  not  apt  to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeyw.  Indeed  !    But,  do  you  know  the  person  you  apply  to  ? 

Loft.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine  :  that's  enough. 
To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  success  of  my  passion.  I'll  say 
no  more,  let  friendship  do  the  rest  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if 
at  any  time  my  little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang  it,  I'll 
make  no  promises — you  know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any  time. 
No  apologies,  my  friend,  I'll  not  be  answered ;  it  shall  be  so. 

[Exit. 

Honeyw.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man !  He  little  thinks 
that  I  love  her  too ;  and  with  such  an  ardent  passion  ! — But  then 
it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and  hopeless  one  ;  my  torment,  my  perse- 
cution !  What  shall  I  do?  Love,  friendship  ;  a  hopeless  passion, 
a  deserving  friend  !  Love  that  has  been  my  tormentor ;  a  friend 
that  has,  perhaps,  distressed  himself  to  serve  me.  It  shall  be  so. 
Yes  I  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my  bosom,  and  exert 
all  my  influence  in  his  favour.  And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  posses- 
sion of  another  ! — Insupportable  !  But  then  to  betray  a  generous, 
trusting  friend  ! — Worse,  worse  !  Yes,  I'm  resolved.  Let  me  but 
be  the  instrument  of  their  happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country, 
where  I  must  for  ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA,  and  GARNET,  who  carries  a  milliners  box. 

Oliv.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  OTer.  No  news  of 
Jarvis  yet  ?  I  believe  the  old  peevish  creature  delays  purely  to 
vex  me. 

Garn.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him  say,  a  little 
snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach  you  to  bear  it  the  betteJ 
afterwards. 

Oliv.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only  to  get  a  bill 
changed  in  the  city  !  How  provoking  ! 

Garn.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had  twice  as  much 
to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time  from  his  inn  :  and  here  you  are 
left  behind. 

Oliv.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming,  however.  Are 
you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing,  Garnet  ? 


THE  GOOD-MATURED  MAN.  14' 

Garn.  Not  a  stick,  madam — all's  here.  Yet  I  wish  I  could 
take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married  in.  It's  the  worst  luck  in 
the  world,  in  anything  but  white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs,  of 
our  town,  that  was  married  in  red ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
the  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Oliv.  No  matter.  I'm  all  impatience  till  we  are  out  of  the 
house. 

Garn.   Bless  me,  madam,   I  had  almost  forgot  the  wedding,; 
ring  ! — The  sweet  little  thing — I  don't  think  it  would  go  on  my 
little  finger.     And  what  if  I  put  in  a  gentleman's  nightcap,  in  case 
of  necessity,  madam? — But  here's  Jarvis. 
Enter  JARVIS. 

Oliv.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last  ?  We  have  been  ready 
this  half  hour.  Now  let's  be  going.  Let  us  fly. 

Jarv.  Ay,  to  Jericho ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going  to  Scotland 
this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Oliv.  How  !  what's  the  matter? 

Jarv.  Money,  money,  is  the  matter,  madam.  We  have  got  no 
money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me  of  your  fool's  errand 
for  ?  My  master's  bill  upon  the  city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here 
it  is ;  Mrs.  Garnet  may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Oliv.  Undone  !  How  could  Honey  wood  serve  us  so  ?  What 
shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  go  without  it  ? 

Jarv.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  I  To  Scotland  without 
money !  Lord,  how  some  people  understand  geography !  We 
might  as  well  set  sail  for  Patagonia  upon  a  cork-jacket. 

Oliv.  Such  a  disappointment !  What  a  base,  insincere  man 
was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  manner  1  Is  this  his  good- 
nature ? 

Jarv.  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam,  I  won't  bear  to 
hear  anybody  talk  ill  of  him  but  myself. 

Garii.  Bless  us !  now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you  need  not  be 
under  any  uneasiness :  I  saw  Mr.  Leontine  receive  forty  guineas 
from  his  father  just  before  he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left 
the  inn.  A  short  letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Qtiv.  Well  remembered,  Garnet  j  I'll  write  immediately.  How'g 


f42  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


this  !  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles  so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do 
you  write,  Garnet ;  and,  upon  second  thought,  it  will  be  better 
from  you. 

Garn.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but  poorly.  I  never 
was  'cute  at  my  learning.  But  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  please  you. 
Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my  own  head,  I  suppose  I 

Oliv.  Whatever  you  please. 

Garn.  ( Writing.)  Muster  Croaker — Twenty  guineas,  madam  ? 

Oliv.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garn.  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for.  Expedition— 
Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame — Quick  despatch — Cupid,  the 
little  god  of  love. — I  conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid  :  I  love  to 
see  a  love-letter  end  like  poetry. 

Oliv.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  anything.  But  how  shall  we 
send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the  servants  of  this  family. 

Garn.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is  in  the  next 
room  :  he's  a  dear,  sweet  man  :  he'll  do  anything  for  me. 

farv.  He  !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some  blunder.  He's 
drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 

Oliv.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet :  anybody  we  can  trust  will  do. 
[Exit  GARNET.]  Well,  Jarvis,  now  we  can  have  nothing  more  to 
interrupt  us;  you  may  take  up  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to 
the  inn.  Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis  ! 

Jarv.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady,  You,  that  are  going  to  be  married, 
think  things  can  never  be  done  too  fast ;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and 
know  what  we  are  about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Oliv.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be  done  over 

again 

Jarv.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times  over. 

Oliv.  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?    If  you  knew  how  unhappy  they 

make  me 

Jarv.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt :  I  was  once  just  as  unhappy 
when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself.  I'll  tell  you  a  story 
about  that 

Oliv.  A  story !  when  I  am  all  impatience  to  be  away.  Wai 
there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature ! 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Jarv.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we  will  march, 
that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have  still  forgot  one  thing  , 
we  should  never  travel  —  without  a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box 
of  shaving  powder.  But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  prett) 
well  shaved  by  the  way.  \Going 

Enter  GARNET. 

Garn.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr.  Jarvis,  you  said 
right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr.  Honeywood's  rogue  of  a 
drunken  butler  dropped  the  letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from 
the  door.  There's  old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up,  and  is  this 
moment  reading  it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 

Oliv.  Unfortunate  !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garn.  No,  madam  ;  don't  be  uneasy,  he  can  make  neither 
head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure  he  looks  as  if  he  was  broken  loose 
from  Bedlam  about  it,  but  he  can't  find  what  it  means  for  all  that. 
O  lud,  he  is  coming  this  way  all  in  the  horrors  ! 

Oliv.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant,  for  fear  he  should 
ask  farther  questions.  In  the  meantime,  Garnet,  do  you  write 
and  send  off  just  such  another.  [Exeunt 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Death  and  destruction  !  Are  all  the  horrors  of  air,  fire, 
and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at  me  !  Am  I  only  to  be  singled 
out  for  gunpowder-plots,  combustibles,  and  conflagration?  Here 
it  is  —  An  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  "  To  Master 
Croaker,  these  with  speed."  Ay,  ay,  plain  enough  the  direction; 
all  in  the  genuine  incendiary  spelling,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil. 
"With  speed."  O,  confound  your  speed.  But  let  me  read  it 
once  more.  (Reads.)  "  Muster  Croaker,  as  sone  as  yo\ve  see  this, 
leve  twenty  gunnes  at  the  bar  of  the  Talboot  tell  caled  for,  or 
yowe  and  yower  experetion  will  be  al  blown  up."  Ah,  but  too 
plain.  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every  line  of  it.  Blown  uj  ! 
murderous  dog  !  All  blown  up  !  Heavens  !  what  have  I  and 
my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all  blown  up?  (Reads.)  "Our 
pockets  are  low,  and  money  we  must  have."  Ay,  there's  the 
reason;  they'll  blow  us  up,  because  they  have  got  low  pockets 


t44  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

{Reads.)  "  It  is  but  a  short  time  you  have  to  consider ;  for  if  thii 
take  wind,  the  house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  flame."  Inhuman 
monsters!  blow. us  up,  and  then  burn  us  !  The  earthquake  at 
Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it.  .(Reads)  "  Make  quick  despatch, 
and  so  no  more  at  present.  But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of 
love,  go  with  you  wherever  you  go."  The  little  god  of  love  ! 
Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  me ;  go  you  to  the  devil, 
you  and  your  little  Cupid  together.  I'm  so  frightened,  I  scarce 
know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or  go.  Perhaps  this  moment  I'm 
treading  on  lighted  matches,  blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels  of 
gunpowder.  They  are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds. 
Murder!  We  shall. be  all  burnt  in  our  beds;  we  shall  be  all 
burnt  in  our  beds. 

Enter  Miss  HIGHLAND. 

Miss  Rich.  Lord,  sir,  wliat's  the  matter  ? 

Croak.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all  blown  up  in  our 
beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Rich.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croak.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam,  when  I  have  a 
certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand ;  will  nothing  alarm  my  family  ? 
Sleeping  and  eating,  sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from 
morning  till  night  in  my  house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep 
though  rocked  by  an  earthquake,  and  fry  beef  steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so  often  already ; 
we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  famines,  plagues,  and  mad  dogs, 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  You  remember,  sir^  it  is  not  above 
a  month  ago,  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers  to 
poison  us  in  our  bread ;  and  so  kept  the  whole  family  a  week  upon 
potatoes. 

Croak.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them.  But  why  do  I 
jtand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I  should  be  facing  the  enemy 
without  ?  Here,  John,  Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into 
the  cellars,  to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below :  and  above, 
in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the  windows. 
Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn  out  in 
the  yard;  to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity,  [Exit, 


THE  GOOb-MATUltEb  MAN.  145 

Miss  Rich.  (Alone],  What  can  he  mean  by  all  this?  Yet  whv 
should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in  this  manner  almost  ever) 
day.  But  Honeywood  has  desired  an  interview  with  me  in  pri 
vate.  What  can  he  mean  ?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation 
at  his  approach?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  showed  anything  in 
his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure  he  cannot  mean  to — 
but  he's  here. 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview,  madam,  before  I 
left  town  to  be  permitted — 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed  !    Leaving  town,  sir  ? — 

ffoneyw.  Yes,  madam ;  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I  have  pre- 
sumed, I  say,  to  desire  the  favour  of  this  interview, — in  order  to 
disclose  something  which  our  long  friendship  prompts.  And  yet 
my  fears — 

Miss  Rich.  His  fears!  What  are  his  fears  to  mine!  (Aside.} 
We  have  indeed  been  long  acquainted,  sir  ;  very  long.  If  I  re- 
member, our  first  meeting  was  at  the  French  ambassador's. — Do 
you  recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my  com- 
plexion there  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly,  madam  :  I  presumed  to  reprove  you  for 
painting ;  but  your  warmer  blushes  soon  convinced  the  company 
that  the  colouring  was  all  from  nature. 

Miss  Rich.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  your  good-natured 
way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to  myself.  In  the  same  man- 
ner you  danced  that  night  with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  com- 
pany, because  you  saw  nobody  else  'vould  take  her  out 

Honeyw.  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night  by  dancing 
with  the  finest  woman  in  company,  whom  everybody  wished  to 
take  out. 

Miss  fitch.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  I  fear  your  judg- 
ment has  since  corrected  the  errors  of  a  first  impression.  We 
generally  show  to  most  advantage  at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor 
tradesmen,  that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

Honeyw.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  indeed  deceive  me. 
I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all  the  faults  of  conscious  nattered 

10 


dOL&SJUfTff  S  PLA  VS. 


h  iMtv  ;  I  expected  to  find  her  vain  and  insolent.  But  every  day 
has  since  tuu-hi  me,  thai  it  is  possible  to  possess  sense  without 
pride,  and  beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual  with  Mr.  Honey 
wood  ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know  why  he  thus  attempts  to 
increase  that  vanity,  which  his  own  lessons  have  taught  me  to 
despise. 

Honeyw.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our  long  friendship 
I  presumed  I  might  have  some  right  to  offer,  without  offence,  what 
you  may  refuse  withput  offending. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  !  I  beg  you'd  reflect  :  though  I  fear,  I  shall  scarce 
have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request  of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  pre 
cipitate  :  consider,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  own  my  rashness  ;  but  as  I  plead  the  cause  of  friend 
ship,  of  one  who  loves  —  Don't  be  alarmed,  madam  —  who  loves 
you  with  the  most  ardent  passions,  whose  whole  happiness  is 
placed  in  you  — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom  you  mean,  by 
this  description  of  him. 

Honeyw.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points  him  out  ;  though 
he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to  urge  his  pretensions,  or  you 
too  modest  to  understand  them. 

Miss  Rich.  Well  ;  it  would  be  affectation  any  longer  to  pretend 
ignorance  ;  and  I  will  own,  sir,  I  have  long  been  prejudiced  in 
his  favour.  It  was  but  natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as 
he  seemed  himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeyw.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (Aside.}  I  find  madam. 
you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth,  his  passion.  How  happy  i.- 
my  friend,  to  be  the  favourite  of  one  with  such  sense  to  distinguisi, 
merit,  and  such  beauty  to  reward  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  friend,  sir  ?     What  friend  ? 

Honeyw.  My  best  friend  —  my  friend,  Mr.  Lofty,  madam. 

Miss  Rich.  He,  sir  ! 

Honeyw.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what  your  warmest 
vishes  might  have  formed  him  ;  and  to  his  other  qualities  he  adds 
that  of  the  most  passionate  regard  for  you. 


THE,  GOOD-NATURED  MAM  I4J 

Miss  Rich.  Amazement !— No  more  of  this,  I  beg  you,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and  know  how  to  in- 
terpret it  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read  the  language  of  your 
heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend  happy,  by  communicating  your  sen- 
timents. 

Mixs  Rich.  By  no  means. 

Honeyw.   Excuse  me,  I  must ;  I  know  you  desire  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Mr.  Honey  wood,  let  me  tell  you,  that  you  wrong 
my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I  first  applied  to  your  friend- 
ship, I  expected  advice  and  assistance  :  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it 
is  in  vain  to  expect  happiness  from  him,  who  has  been  so  bad  an 
economist  of  his  own  ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship  who 
ceases  to  be  a  friend  to  himself.  \Exit. 

Honeyw.  How  is  this  !  she  has  confessed  she  loved  him,  and 
yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure.  Can  I  have  done  any 
thing  to  reproach  myself  with  ?  No  ;  I  believe  not :  yet  after  all. 
Jiese  things  should  not  be  done  by  a  third  person  :  I  should  have 
spared  her  confusion.  My  friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  CROAKER,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  MRS.  CROAKER. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's  your  supreme 
wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched  upon  this  occasion  ?  ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak.  (Mimicking.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's  your 
supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better  consolation  ? 

Afrs.  Croak.  Positively,  my  dear;  what  is  this  incendiary  stuff 
and  trumpery  to  me?  our  house  may  travel  through  the  air  like 
the  house  of  Loretto,  for  aught  I  care,  if  I  am  to  be  miserable 
in  it. 

Croak.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  converted  into  a  house  of 
correction  for  your  benefit !  Have  we  not  everything  to  alarm 
us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment  the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till  the  rising  of 
the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  money  they  want,  and  have  done 
with  them. 

Croak.  Give  them  my  money ! — And  pray,  what  right  have 
they  to  my  money  ? 

10— • 


148 


Mrs.  Croak.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have  you  to  my  good- 
humour  ? 

Croak.  And  so  your  good-humour  advises  me  to  part  with  my 
money  ?  Why  then,  to  tell  your  good-humour  a  piece  of  my  mind. 
I'd  sooner  part  with  my  wife.  Here's  Mr.  Honey  wood,  see  what 
he'll  say  to  it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary- 
letter  dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror  ;  and 
yet  lovey  here  can  read  it  —  can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croak.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the  next  minute  in 
the  rogue's  place,  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood;  is  there  anything  mere 
foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon  this  occasion? 

Honeyw.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide,  madam  ;  but, 
doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors  now  will  but  invite  them  to 
renew  their  villany  another  time. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  told  you  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croak.  How,  sir  !  do  you  maintain  that  I  should  lie  down 
under  such  an  injury,  and  show,  neither  by  my  tears  nor  com- 
plaints, that  I  have  something  of  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  me  ? 

Honeyw.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make  the  loudest 
complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The  surest  way  to  have  redress, 
is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

Croak.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing  off  our  fears  is 
the  best  way? 

Honeyw.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can  say;  but  I'll  main- 
tain it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croak.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best.  Surely  ths  best  way  is  to 
face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not  wait  till  he  plunders  us  in  GUI 
very  bed-chamber. 

Honeyw.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that  —  that's  a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  can  anything  be  more  absurd,  than  to  double 
our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions,  and  put  it  in  the  power  of 
every  low  fellow  that  can  scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling 
to  torment  us  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  r4y 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croak.  How  1  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to  despise  the 
lattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd, 

Croak.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion. 

Honeyw.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  you  reject  mine? 

Honeyw.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No  sure,  no  reasoning  can 
be  more  just  than  yours.  We  ought  certainly  to  despise  malice 
if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and  not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal 
to  our  repose  as  the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croak.  O  !  then  you  think  I'm  quite  right  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly  right. 

Croak.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both  right  I  ought 
to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My  hat  must  be  on  my  head, 
or  my  hat  must  be  ofE 

Mrs.  Croak.  Certainly  in  two  opposite  opinions,  if  one  be  per- 
fectly reasonable,  the  other  can't  be  perfectly  right. 

Honeyw.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right,  madam  ?  Mr. 
Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress,  and  you  in  waiting  the  event 
with  good-humour  ?  Pray,  let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it 
This  letter  requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the 
Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  what  if  you  and 
I,  sir,  go  there ;  and  when  the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  for  his 
expected  booty,  seize  him  ? 

Croak.  My  dear  friend,  it's  the  very  thing ;  the  very  thing. 
While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall  plant  yourself  in  ambush  near 
the  bar;  burst  out  upon  the  miscreant  like  a  masked  battery; 
extort  a  confession  at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeyw.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  exercise  too  much 
severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that  crimes  generally  punish  them- 
selves. 

Croak.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little,  I  suppose? 
{Ironically.} 

Honeyw.  Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croak.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevolence; 


I  $0  COL  DSMTTfTS  PLA  YS. 

Honeyw.  Well,  I  do ;  but  remember  that  universal  benevolence 
is  the  first  law  of  nature.  \Exeunt  HONEYWOOD  and  MRS.  CROAKER. 

Croak  Yes ;  and  my  universal  benevolence  will  hang  the  dog, 
if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE — An  Inn. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  JARVIS. 

Oliv.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  however.     Now,  if  the 

post-chaise  were  ready 

far.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats ;  and,  as  they  are 
not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose  to  take  their  own  time. 

Oliv.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to  my  impatience. 

Jar.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must  take  their  own 

time ;  besides,  you  don't  consider  we  have  got  no  answer  from  our 

fellow-traveller  yet   If  we  hear  nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have 

only  one  way  left  us. 

Oliv.  What  way? 
far.  The  way  home  again. 

Oliv.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go,  and  nothing 
shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

far.  Ay ;  resolutions  are  well  kept  when  they  jump  with  inclina- 
tion. However,  I'll  go  hasten  things  without  And  I'll  call,  too, 
at  the  bar  to  see  if  anything  should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don't  be 
in  such  a  plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I 
promise  you.  [Exit  JARVIS. 

Enter  LANDLADY. 

Land.  What!  Solomon,  why  don't  you  move?  Pipes  and  tobacco 
for  the  Lamb  there.  Will  nobody  answer?  To  the  Dolphin;  quick. 
The  Angel  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  ladyship 
call,  madam  ? 

Oliv.  No,  madam. 

Land.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam. — But  that's  no 
business  of  mine;  married  or  not  married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To 
be  sure  we  had  a  sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago 


ffrs  GOOD-MATURED  MAN. 


for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was,  to  be  sure. 
as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the 
young  lady  so  bashful  :  it  was  near  half  an  hour  before  we  could 
get  her  to  finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between  us. 

Oliv.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to  be  married,  I 
assure  you. 

Land.  May  be  not.  That's  no  business  of  mine  ;  for  certain. 
Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well.  There  was,  of  my  ow  n 
knowledge,  Miss  Macfag,  that  married  her  father's  footman—  alack  - 
a-day,  she  and  her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate 
cellars  in  Hedge-lane. 

Oliv.  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies  before  me  !          [Aside. 
Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  were  out  of  danger, 
was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could  not  help  coming  to  see  you 
set  out,  though  it  exposes  us  to  a  discovery. 

Oliv.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  fortunate.  Indeed, 
Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disappointed.  Mr.  Honey- 
wood's  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it  seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have 
been  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leant.  How  !  an  offer  of  his  own  too  !  Sure  he  could  not  mean 
to  deceive  us  ? 

Oliv.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity  :  he  only  mistook  the  desire 
for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let  us  think  no  more  of  it  1 
believe  the  post-chaise  is  ready  by  this. 

Land.   Not  quite,  yet  ;  and,  begging  your  ladyship's  pardon,   1 
don't  think   your  ladyship  quite  ready  for  the  post-chaise.     Thi 
north  road  is  a  cold  place,  madam.    I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  <>: 
as  pretty  raspberry  as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.     Just  a  thimble 
ful  to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach.  —  To  be  sure,  the  last  coup! 
we  had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect  nosegay.    Ecod,  I  sent  thei. 
both  away  as  good-natured  —  Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  UK 
wheels,  and,  "  Drive  away,  post-boy,"  was  the  word. 
Enter  CROAKER. 

Ctoak.  Weil,  while  my  iriend  Honey  wood  is  upon  the  post  cf 


GOLDSMITHS  PLA  VS. 


danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  business  to  have  an  eye  about  me 
nere.  I  think  I  know  an  incendiary's  look  ;  for  wherever  the  devil 
makes  a  purchase,  he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha  !  who  have 
we  here  ?  My  son  and  daughter  !  What  can  they  be  doing  here  ? 

Land.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good  ;  I  think  I  know 
by  this  time  what's  good  for  the  north  road.  It's  a  raw  night, 
madam.  —  Sir  — 

Leont.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should  now  take  it  as 
a  great  favour  if  you  hasten  the  horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen 
myself. 

Land.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon  !  are  you  all  de»d 
there  ?  Wha,  Solomon,  I  say  !  [Exit  bawling. 

Oliv.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in  fear  should  end 
in  repentance.  —  Every  moment  we  stay  increases  our  danger,  and 
adds  to  my  apprehensions. 

Leont.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear  :  there  can  be  none. 
If  Honeyv/ood  has  acted  with  honour,  and  kept  my  father,  as  he 
promised,  in  employment  till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can 
interrupt  our  journey. 

.  Oliv.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sincerity,  and  even 
his  desire  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are  from  your  father's  suspicions. 
A  mind  so  disposed  to  be  alarmed  without  cause,  will  be  but  tou 
ready  when  there's  a  reason. 

Leont.  Why  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his  power.  But,  belic-v. 
me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great  reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His 
repining  temper,  as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  will 
it  never  do  harm  to  others.  He  only  frets  to  keep  himself  em- 
ployed, and  scolds  for  his  private  amusement. 

Oliv.  I  don't  know  that  ;  but  I'm  sure,  on  some  occasions,  it 
wakes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

CROAKER,  discovering  himself. 

Croak.  How  does  he  look  now  ?  —  How  does  he  look  now  ? 

Oliv.  Ah! 

Leont.  Undone. 

Croak.  How  do  I  look  now  ?    Sir,  I  am  your  very  humble  ser 
Madam,  I  am  yours.  What,  you  are  going  off,  are  you?  Then. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAtf.  151 


first,  if  you  please,  take  a  word  or  two  from  me  v;vh  you  before 
you  go.  Tell  me  first  where  you  are  going ;  and  when  you  have 
told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did  befcve. 

Leant.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  increase  youi  dis 
pleasure,  without  adding  to  your  information. 

Croak.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy  :  and  you,  too 
good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ?  Eh  !  (A  cry  without, 
Stop  him/)  I  think  I  heard  a  noise.  My  friend  Honey  wood  with 
out — has  he  seized  the  incendiary  ?  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no 
more  on't 

Leont.  Honeywood  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood 
that  directed  you  hither  ? 

Croak.  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  conducted  me  hither. 

Lcont.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Croak.  Possible !  Why  he's  in  the  house  now,  sir;  more  anxious 
about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leont.  Then,  sir,  he's  a  villain. 

Croak.  How,  sirrah  !  a  villain,  because  he  takes  most  care  of 
your  father  ?  I'll  not  bear  it  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  bear  it  Honey- 
wood  is  a  friend  to  the  family,  and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leont.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it  deserves. 

Croak.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he  entered  into  my 
griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to  detect  them,  you  would  love 
him  as  I  do.  (A  cry  without,  Stop  him/)  Fire  and  fury  !  they  have 
seized  the  incendiary:  they  have  the  villain,  the  incendiary  in  view. 
Stop  him  !  stop  an  incendiary !  a  murderer  !  stop  him  !  [Exit. 

Olio.  Oh,  my  terrors  !  What  can  this  tumult  mean  ? 

Leant.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sin- 
cerity. But  we  shall  have  satisfaction  :  he  shall  give  me  instant 
satisfaction. 

Olvv.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value  my  esteem  or 
happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate,  let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  mis- 
fortunes.— Consider  that  our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  that  we 
have  left  us.  You  must  forgive  him. 

Leont.  Forgive  him !  has  he  not  in  every  instance  betrayed  us  ? 
forced  me  to  borrow  money  from  him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick 


Ij4  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

to  delay  us  ;  promised  to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out 
of  danger,  and  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape? 
Oliv.  Don't  be  precipitate.    We  may  yet  be  mistaken. 

Enter  POSTBOY,  dragging  in  JARVIS  ;   HONEYWOOD  entering  soon 

after. 

Post.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough.  Here  is  the  incen- 
diary dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the  reward ;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw 
him  ask  for  the  money  at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeyw.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see  him.  Let  him  leam 
to  blush  for  his  crimes.  (Discovering  his  mistake.}  Death  !  what's 
here?  Jarvis,  Leontine,  Olivia  !  What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Jar.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means :  that  I  was  an  old  fool, 
arid  that  you  are  my  master — that's  all. 

Honeyw.  Confusion ! 

Leant.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word  with  me.  After 
such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you  can  venture  to  see  the  man  you 
have  injured. 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my  honour — 

Leant.  Peace,  peace,  tor  shame ;  and  do  not  continue  to  aggra- 
vate baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you,  sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me  !  By  all  that's  just,  I  knew 
not 

Leant.  Hear  you,  sir  !  to  what  purpose  ?  I  now  see  through  all 
four  low  arts;  your  ever  complying  with  every  opinion;  your  never 
refusing  any  request :  your  friendship's  as  common  as  a  prostitute's 
favours,  and  as  fallacious  ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  contemp- 
uble  to  the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeyw.  Ha  !  contemptible  to  the  world  ;  that  reaches  me. 

{Aside. 

Leant.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  professions,  I  now  find, 
were  only  allurements  to  betray  ;  and  all  your  seeming  regret  for 
their  consequences,  only  calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your 
heart.  Draw,  villain  1 

Enter  CROAKER,  out  of  breath. 
Qroak.  Where  is  the  villain?  Where  is  the  incendiary?  (Seizing 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


155 


the  POSTBOY.)  Hold  him  fast,  the  dog  :  he  has  the  gallows  in  his 
face.  Come,  you  dog,  confess ;  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Post.  Zounds  !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me  for  ? 

Croak.  (Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist?  do  you  resist? 

Post.  Zounds  !  master,  I'm  not  he ;  there's  the  man  that  we 
thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to  be  one  of  the  company. 

Croak.  How  I 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under  a  strange  mistake 
here  ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty ;  it  was  all  an  error ;  entirely 
an  error  of  our  own. 

Croak.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you're  in  an  error ;  for  there's  guilt 
and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  Jesuitical,  pestilential  plot,  and 
I  must  have  proof  of  it 

Honeyw.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croak.  What !  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  I  suppose  ?  I'll  heai 
nothing. 

Honeyw.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enough  to  hear  reason 

Oliv.  Excuse  me. 

Honeyw.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me,  then,  explain  it  to  you. 

Jar.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing  is  done  ? 

Honeyw.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever  such  a  set,  so 
blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice?  (To  the  Postboy.)  My  good 
friend,  I  believe  you'll  be  surprised  when  I  assure  you 

Post.    Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing  but  a  good  beating. 

Croak.  Come,  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope  for  any  favour 
or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincere!}  all  you  know  of  this  affair. 

Oliv.  Unhappily,  sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the  cause  of  your  sus- 
picions. You  see  before  you,  sir,  one  that,  with  false  pretences, 
has  stepped  into  your  family  to  betray  it ;  not  your  daughter 

Cfoak.  Not  my  daughter  ! 

Oliv.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  deceiver — who — support 
me,  I  cannot 

Honeyw.  Help,  she's  going ;  give  her  air. 

Croak.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the  air  ;  I  would  not 
hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever  daughter  she  may  be — not  so 
bad  as  that  neither.  \Excunt  ail  but  CROAKER. 


,S6  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

Croak.  Yes,  yes,  all's  out ;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair  :  my  son 
is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady,  whom  he  imposed 
upon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  certainly  so  j  and  yet  I  don't  find  it 
afflicts  me  so  much  as  one  might  think.  There's  the  advantage  of 
fretting  away  our  misfortunes  beforehand,  we  never  feel  them  when 
they  come. 

Enter  Miss  HIGHLAND  and  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Sir  WiL  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that  my  nephew  intends 
setting  off  from  this  place  r 

Miss  Rich.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come  to  this  inn,  and 
my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to  leave  the  kingdom  suggested 
the  rest.  But  what  do  I  see  !  my  guardian  here  before  us  !  Who, 
my  dear  sir,  could  have  expected  meeting  you  here  ?  to  what  acci- 
dent do  we  owe  this  pleasure  ? 

Croak.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Rich.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come  ? 

Croak.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Rick.  But  with  whom  ? 

Croak.  With  greater  fools  than  myse'i£ 

Miss  Rich.  Explain. 

Croak.  Why,  Mr.  Honey  wood  brought  me  here,  to  do  nothing, 
now  I  am  here ;  and  my  son  is  going  to  be  married  to  I  don't  know 
who,  that  is  here :  so  now  you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Rich.  Married  !  to  whom,  sir  ? 

Croak.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to  be  ;  but  who 
the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is,  I  know  no  more  than 
the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  WiL  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you  ;  and,  though  a  stranger, 
vet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to  your  family.  It  will  be  enough, 
at  present,  to  assure  you,  that  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune 
the  young  lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her  father, 
Sir  James  Woodville 

Croak.  Sir  James  Woodville  !  What,  of  the  west  ? 

Sir  WiL  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care  of  a  mercenary 
wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure  her  fortune  to  himself,  she 
vas  sent  to  France,  under  pretence  of  education;  and  there  every 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  157 

rv 

art  was  tried  to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclina 
tions.  Of  this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at  Paris ;  and,  as 
I  had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I  did  all  in  my  power  to  frus- 
trate her  guardian's  base  intentions.  I  had  even  meditated  to 
rescue  her  from  his  authority,  when  your  son  stepped  in  with  more 
pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croak.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my  own  choosing, 
sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune,  by  my  interest  with  those 
who  have  interest,  will  be  double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Yes,  sir ;  and  know  that  you  are  deceived  in  him.  But 
step  this  way,  and  I'll  convince  you. 

[CROAKER  and  SIR  WILLIAM  seem  to  confer. 
Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his  outrage !  Insulted 
by  him,  despised  by  all.  I  now  begin  to  grow  contemptible  even 
to  myself.  How  have  I  sunk  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please  \ 
How  have  I  over-taxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of  a 
single  fool  should  escape  me!  But  all  is  now  over.  I  have  survived 
my  reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and  nothing  remains 
henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Rich.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that  you  are  setting  off, 
without  taking  leave  of  your  friends  ?  The  report  is,  that  you  are 
quitting  England :  can  it  be  ? 

Honeyw.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  have 
fallen  under  your  displeasure ;  yet,  thank  Heaven  !  I  leave  you  to 
happiness  ;  to  one  who  loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love  ;  to  one 
who  has  power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  improve 
your  enjoyment  of  it 

Miss  Rich.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the  gentleman  you  mean 
is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeyw.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it — his  serving  me.  He 
does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  happiness,  and  that  is  in  your 
power  to  confer.  As  for  me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been, 
obliged  by  all,  and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness  can 
1  find  but  in  solitude  ?  what  hope,  but  in  being  forgotten? 


t$8  GOLpSMITirS  PLA  YSt. 

Miss  Rich.  A  thousand  !  to  live  among  friends  that  esteem  you, 
whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  permitted  to  oblige  you. 

Honeyw.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed.  Inferiority  among 
strangers  is  easy ;  but  among  those  that  once  were  equals,  insup- 
portable. Nay,  to  show  you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can 
now  speak  with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my 
dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even  confess,  that  among  the 
number  of  my  other  presumptions,  I  had  the  insolence  to  think 
of  loving  you.  Yes,  madam,  while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of 
another,  my  heart  was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is  over ;  it 
was  unworthy  our  friendship,  and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Miss  Rich.  You  amaze  me  ! 

Honeyw.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will ;  since  the  con- 
fession should  not  have  come  from  me  even  now,  but  to  convince 
you  of  the  sincerity  of  my  intention  of — never  mentioning  it  more. 

[Going. 

Miss  Rich.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment — Ha !  he  here— 
Enter  LOFTY. 

Loft.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends?  I  have  followed 
you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelligence;  but  it  goes  no 
farther,  things  are  not  yet  ripe  for  a  discovery.  1  have  spirits 
working  at  a  certain  board  ;  your  affair  at  the  treasury  will  be 
done  in  less  than  a  thousand  years.  Mum  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Loft.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into  proper  hands 
that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to  parry ;  that  know  how  the 
land  lies — eh,  Honeywood  ? 

Miss  Rich.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Loft.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense,  your  thing  is 
done.  It  is  done,  I  say — that's  all.  I  have  just  had  assurances 
from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim  has  been  examined,  and  found 
admissible.  Quietus  is  the  word,  madam. 

Honeyw.  But  how  ?  his  lordship  has  been  at  Newmarket  these 
ten  days. 

Loft.  Indeed  !    Then,  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have  been  most 
mistaken.     I  had  it  of  him. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  159 

Miss  Rich.  He  !  why,  Sir  Gilbert  and  his  family  have  been  in 
the  country  this  month. 

Ltft.  This  month  !  it  must  certainly  be  so — Sir  Gilbert's  letter 
did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  so  that  he  must  have  met  hi* 
lordship  there ;  and  so  it  came  about  I  have  his  letter  about 
me;  I'll  read  it  to  you.  (Taking  out  a  large  bundle.)  That's 
from  Paoli  of  Corsica,  that  from  the  Marquis  of  Squilachi. — 
Have  you  a  mind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Poniatowski,  now 
King  of  Poland?— Honest  Pon — (Searching).  O,  sir,  what!  are 
you  here  too  t  I'll  tell  you  what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have  not 
absolutely  delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood,  you 
may  return  it  The  thing  will  do  without  him. 

Sir  Wil.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it ;  and  must  inform  you,  it  was 
received  with  the  most  mortifying  contempt. 

Croak.  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that  mean  ? 

Loft.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You'll  find  it  come 
to  something  presently. 

Sir  \\  il.  Yes,  sir ;  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed,  if  after  waiting 
some  time  in  the  ante-chamber,  after  being  surveyed  with  insolent 
curiosity  by  the  passing  servants,  I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir 
William  Honeywood  knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly 
have  been  imposed  upon. 

Loft.  Good  !  let  me  die ;  very  good.     Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Croak.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half  the  goodness  of  it 

Loft.  You  can't  ?     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me  !  I  think  it  was  as  confounded 
a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one  private  gentleman  to 
another. 

Loft.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the  message.  Why, 
!  A  as  in  the  house  at  that  very  time.  Ha  !  ha  !  it  was  I  that  sent 
hat  very  answer  to  my  own  letter.  Ha  !  ha! 

Croak.  Indeed1     How?  why? 

Loft.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William  and  me  must  be 
behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has  many  eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord 
Buzzard,  I  side  with  Sir  Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the 
tnystery. 


i6o  GOLDSMITH'S  fPLA  YS. 

Croak.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all  my  suspicions  are  over. 

Loft.  Your  suspicions  !  What,  then,  you  have  been  suspecting, 
you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you  ?  Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I 
were  friends ;  we  are  friends  no  longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  It's 
over ;  I  say,  it's  over. 

Croak.  As  I  hope  for  your  favour,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend.  It 
escaped  me.  Don't  be  discomposed. 

Loft.  Zounds  !  sir,  but  I  am  Jiscomposed,  and  will  be  discom- 
posed. To  be  treated  thus  !  Who  am  I  ?  Was  it  for  this  I  have 
been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and  outs  ?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the 
Gazetteer,  and  praised  in  the  St.  James's?  have  I  been  chaired  at 
Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant-Tailor's  Hall  ?  have  I  had 
my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the  print  shops  ;  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects  ? 

Croak.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you  have  but  ask- 
ing pardon  ? 

Loft.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects  !  Who  am  I  ?  To 
be  used  thus !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men  in  favour  to  serve  my 
friends ;  the  lords  of  the  treasury,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  and 
the  rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  ?  Who  am  i,  I 
say,  who  am  I  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Since  you  are  so  pressing  for  an  answer,  I'll  tell  you 
who  you  are : — A  gentleman  as  well  acquainted  with  politics  as 
with  men  in  power ;  as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as 
with  modesty :  with  lords  of  the  treasury  as  with  truth ;  and  withal, 
as  you  are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood.  (Discovering  his  ensigns  of  the  Bath.} 

Croak.  Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeyw.  Astonishment !  my  uncle  !     (Aside.} 

Loft.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all  this  time  only 
fading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to  fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croak.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your  works  ? 
Suspect  you  !  You,  who  have  been  dreaded  by  the  ins  and  outs ; 
you,  who  have  had  your  hand  to  addresses,  and  your  head  stuck 
up  in  print-shops.  If  you  were  served  nght,  vou  should  have 
ypur.  head  stuck  up  in  a  pillory. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  t6f 

Ltft.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for,  by  the  Lord,  it  cuts  but  a 
very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at  present. 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now  see  how  incapable 
this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you,  and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has 
to  expect  from  his  influence. 

Croak.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can't  but  say  I  have 
had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So  I  am  resolved,  since 
my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on  a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to 
be  satisfied  with  his  choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of  another 
Mr.  Lofty  in  helping  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  WiL  I  approve  your  resolution;  and  here  they  come  to 
receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon  and  consent 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER,  JARVIS,  LEONTINE,  and  OLIVIA. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Where's  my  husband  ?  Come,  come,  lovey,  you 
must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been  to  tell  me  the  whole 
affair ;  and  I  say,  you  must  forgive  them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen 
match,  you  know,  my  dear;  and  we  never  had  any  reason  to 
repent  of  it. 

Ctvak,  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However,  this  gentleman, 
Sir  William  Honey  wood,  has  been  beforehand  with  you  in  obtain- 
ing their  pardon.  So,  if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry, 
I  think  we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing  the  Tweed  for 
it  (Joining  their  hands.} 

Leont.  How  blest  and  unexpected  !  What,  what  can  we  say  to 
such  goodness?  But  our  future  obedience  shall  be  the  best 
reply.  And  as  for  this  gentleman,  to  whom  we  owe — 

Sir  W.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your  thanks,  as  I  have 
here  an  interest  that  calls  me.  (Turning  to  Honeywoott.)  Yes, 
sir,  you  are  surprised  to  see  me ;  and  a  desire  of  correcting  your 
follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the  errors  of  a  mind 
that  only  sought  applause  from  others;  that  easiness  of  disposition, 
which  though  inclined  to  the  right,  had  not  courage  to  condemn  the 
wrong.  I  saw  with  regret  those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took 
name  from  some  neighbouring  duty ;  your  charity,  that  was  but 
injustice ;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but  weakness ;  and  you 

XX 


t6a  GOLbSMfTtfS  PZAYS. 


nemlshTp,  but  credulity.  I  saw  with  regret  great  talents  and  ex- 
pensive learning  only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error,  and 
^crease  your  perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a  thousand 
•natural  charms  ;  but  the  greatness  of  its  beauty  served  only  to 
•eighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitution. 

Honcyw.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir  ;  I  have  for  some  time  but 
too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  reproaches.  But  there  is  one 
way  still  left  me.  Yes,  sir,  I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to 
;juit  for  ever  a  place  where  I  have  made  myself  the  voluntary 
^lave  of  all,  and  to  seek  among  strangers  that  fortitude  which  may 
«ive  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all  its  dissipated  virtues. 
Yet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me  to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentleman  ; 
who,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened,  has  laid  me  under  the 
most  signal  obligations.  —  Mr.  Lofty  — 

Lofl.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  reformation  as  well 
as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the  man  who  first  invented  the 
art  of  speaking  truth,  was  a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought 
him.  And  to  prove  that  I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future, 
[  must  now  assure  you  that  you  owe  your  late  enlargement 
to  another  ;  as,  upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  So 
now,  if  any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment,  he  may 
lake  my  place  ;  I'm  determined  to  resign.  [Exit. 

Honeyw.  How  have  I  been  deceived  ! 

Sir  Wil.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a  kinder,  fairei 
riend,  for  that  favour  —  to  Miss  Richland.  Would  she  complete 
.ur  joy,  and  make  the  man  she  has  honoured  by  her  friendship 
uppy  in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget  all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the 
-velkre  of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make  me. 

Miss  Rich.  After  what  is  past,  it  would  but  be  affectation  to 
pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own  an  attachment,  which  I 
find  was  more  than  friendship.  And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his 
resolution  to  quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not 
power  to  detain  him.  (Giving  her  hand.} 

Honeyw.  Heavens  !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all  this  ?     How 
express  my  happiness,  my  gratitude  ?  —  A  moment  like  this  over- 
an  age  of  ay^uehension. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  163 

Croak.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face ;  but  heaven  send 
we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months  ! 

Sir  WiL  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect  yourself.  He 
who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  without,  has  all  his  happiness  in 
another's  keeping. 

Honeyw.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive  my  errors;  ray 
vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by  fearing  to  offend  any ;  my 
meanness  in  approving  folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Hence- 
forth, therefore,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real 
distress ;  my  friendship  for  true  merit ;  and  my  love  for  her,  who 
first  taught  me  what  it  is  to  be  happy. 

EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN    BY    MRS.   BULKLEY. 

[]S  puffing  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought  a  cure ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  playwrights  still  depend 
For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 

Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 

And  make  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 

Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about, 

And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 

An  epilogue  !  things  can't  go  on  without  it ! 

It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it. 

"  Young  man,"  cries  one,  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover,) 

"  Alas,  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over ; 

Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 

Your  brother  Doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try." 

"  What,  I  !  dear  sir,"  the  Doctor  interposes : 

"What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses! 

No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain ; 

To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick  Lane. 

*  The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at  Oxford,  de- 
ferred writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour.  What  is  here  offered  owes 
ill  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the  actress  who  spoke  it. 

n — a 


(64  GOLDSMlTfTS  PLAYS. 

Go  ask  your  manager." — "Who?  me !     Your  pardon; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden." 
Our  author's  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance^ 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 
As  some  unhappy  wight  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  pit  door  stands  elbowing  away, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug^ 
He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 
His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod  ;  he  cringes^  they  grimace; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since  then,  unhelped,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
"To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm," 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Naturcd  Man. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES   OF  A  NIGHT. 
A  COMEDY. 

DEDICATION. 

TO   SAMUEL  JOHNSON,    LL.D. 

jjEAR  SIR, — By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you, 
I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself. 
It  may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the  public  that  I 
have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.      It  may 
serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform  them,  that  the  greatest 
wit  may  be  found  in  a  character,  without  impairing  the  most  un- 
affected piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiality  to 
this  performance.  The  undertaking  a  Comedy,  not  merely  senti- 
mental, was  very  dangerous  :  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this  piece 
in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so.  However,  I  ventured 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


to  trust  it  to  the  public  ;  and,  though  it  was  necessarily  <k-!a\  t-d  till 
late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  sincere  Friend  and  Admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 
Cast  of  the  characters  at  Cwent  Garden  in  1773. 
MEN.  Diggory-    ...  MR.  SAUNDERS. 


Sir  Charles  Marlow 


MR.  GARDNER. 
young  Marlow  (his  son) 

MR.  LEWIS. 
Hardtastle  ...  MR.  SHUTER. 

Hastings      •     -     .  MR.  DUBELLAMY. 
Tony  Lumpkin     -  MR.  QUICK. 


WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  -  MRS.  GREEN. 
Miss  Hardcastle   •  MRS.  BUCKLEY. 
Miss  Neville    -    •  MRS.  KNIVETON. 
Maid     •    -    •     -  Miss  WILLIAMS. 
Landlord,  Servants,  &>c. 


PROLOGUE, 
BY  DAVID  GARRICK,    ESQ. 

Enter  MR.  WOODWARD,  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a  handkerchief 

to  his  eyes. 

CUSE  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I  can't  yet  speak, — 

I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week. 

"'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,"  good  masters. 

"  I've  that  within  " — for  which  there  are  no  plasters ! 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying  ? 
The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying  1 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop  ; 
For  as  a  play*r,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop  t 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread—- 
I'd rather — but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed  I 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead,  to  all  intents ; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments  I 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 


166  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  VS. 


What  shall  we  do? — If  Comedy  forsake  us, 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us; 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fixed  my  face  and  eye— 
With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  means, 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes) 
Thus  I  begin — "  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ignorance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand : 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip  :  who  trips  may  stumble^ 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble." 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me ; 
To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill, 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 
He,  in  Five  Draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion: 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assured, 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured : 
But  desperate  the  Doctor's  and  her  case  is, 
If  you  reject  the  dose  and  make  wry  faces. 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  gives. 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee. 
The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE — A  Chamber  in  an  Old-fashioned  House. 
Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  MR.    HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs,  Hard.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  very  particular.     Is 
there  a  creature  in  the  whole  country  but  ourselves,  that  does  not 


SffE  STOOPS  TO  COfrQVEft. 


take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then,  to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ? 
There's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbour,  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go 
to  take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hani.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affectation  to  last  them 
*he  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  London  cannot  keep  its  own 
fools  at  home  !  In  my  time,  the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly 
among  us,  but  now  they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach.  Its 
fopperies  come  down  not  only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the 
very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times  indeed  ;  you  have 
been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a  long  year.  Here  we  live  in 
an  old  rumbling  mansion  that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn, 
but  that  we  never  see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs. 
Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing 
master  ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince 
Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I  hate  such  old-fashioned 
jumpery. 

Hard.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that's  old  :  old  friends, 
old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old  wines  ;  and  I  believe, 
Dorothy  (taking  her  hand},  you'll  own  I  have  been  pretty  fond  of 
an  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for  ever  at  your 
Dorothys  aud  your  old  wives.  You  may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be 
no  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me  by 
<nore  than  one  good  year.  Add  twenty  to  twenty,  and  make 
,noney  of  that. 

Hard.  Let  me  see;  twenty  added  to  twenty  makes  just  fifty 
md  seven. 

Mrs.  Hard.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle  ;  I  was  but  twenty  when 
I  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony,  that  I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my 
drst  husband  ;  and  he's  not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hard.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him.  —  Ay,  you  have 
iaught  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Hard.  No  matter.  1'ony  Lumpkin  has  a  good  fortune. 
My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning.  I  don't  think  a  boy  wants 
•nuch  learnir  ~  to  spend  fifteen  hundred  a  year. 


I6S  GOLfiSMrrtrS  PLAYS. 

Hard.  Learning,  quotha !  a  mere  composition  of  tricks  and 
mischief. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Humour,  my  dear ;  nothing  but  humour.  Come, 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the  boy  a  little  humour. 

Hard.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond.  If  burning  the 
footman's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids,  and  worrying  the  kittens 
be  humour,  he  has  it.  It  was  but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wi^ 
to  the  back  of  my  chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popped 
my  bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Am  I  to  blame?  The  poor  boy  was  always  too 
sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would  be  his  death.  When  he 
comes  to  be  a  little  stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's 
Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hard.  Latin  for  him !  A  cat  and  fiddle.  No,  no  ;  the  ale- 
house and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools  he'll  ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor  boy  now,  for  I 
believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among  us.  Anybody  that  looks 
in  his  face  may  see  he's  consumptive. 

Hard.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the  symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hard.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hard.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hard.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes  whoops  like  a 
speaking-trumpet — (TONY,  hallooing  behind  the  scenes.) — Oh,  there 
he  goes — a  very  consumptive  figure,  truly. 

Enter  TONY,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my  charmer  ?  Won't 
you  give  papa  and  me  a  little  of  your  company,  lovee  ? 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw  evening,  my  dear ; 
you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons  expects  me 
down  every  moment.  There's  some  fun  going  forward. 

Hard.  Ay ;  the  alehouse ;  the  old  place ;  I  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  feUows. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  169 

Tony,  Not  so  low  neither.  There's  Dick  Muggins  the  excise- 
man, Jack  Slang,  the  horse  doctor,  little  Aminadab  that  grinds  the 
music  box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them  for  one  night  at 
least 

lony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so  much  mind  j 
but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Detaining  him.)  You  shan't  go. 

Tony.  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  say  you  shan't 

Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Exit,  hauling  her  out. 

Hard,  (solus).  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only  spoil  each 
other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a  combination  to  drive  sense 
and  discretion  out  of  doors  ?  There's  my  pretty  darling  Kate  ! 
the  fashions  of  the  times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By 
living  a  year  or  two  in  town,  she's  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French 
frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLK. 

Hard.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence !  dressed  out  as  usual, 
my  Kate.  Goodness  !  What  a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast 
thou  got  about  thee,  girl !  I  could  never  teach  the  fools  of  this 
age  that  the  indigent  world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings 
of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hard.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir.  You  allow  me  the 
morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner; 
and  in  the  evening  I  put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hard.  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the  terms  of  our  agreement ; 
and,  by-the-by,  I  believe  I  shall  have  occasion  to  try  your 
obedience  this  very  evening. 

Afiss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend  your  meaning. 

Hard.  Then  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  expect  the  young 
gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your  husband  from  town  this  very 
day.  I  have  his  Bather's  letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is 
set  out,  and.  that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly  after. 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


Miss  Hard.  Indeed  !  I  wish  I  had  known  something  of  this 
before.  Bless  me  !  how  shall  I  behave  ?  It's  a  thousand  to  one 
I  shan't  like  him  j  our  meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a 
thing  of  business,  that  I  shal!  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will  control  your  choice; 
but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old 
friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so 
often  The  young  gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  de- 
signed for  an  employment  in  the  service  of  his  country.  I  am  told 
he's  a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hard.  Is  he  ? 

Hard,  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.   Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  (kissing  his  hand],  he's 
mine  ;  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  And  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of  the  most  bashful 
and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death  again.  That 
word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest  of  his  accomplishments.  A 
reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides  in  a  breast  that 
is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues.  It  was  the  very  feature  in  IMS 
character  that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking  features  to  catch  me,  I 
promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so  young,  so  handsome,  and  so 
everything  as  you  mention,  I  believe  he'll  do  still.  I  think  l':l 
have  him. 

Hard.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle.  —  It's  more  than 
an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mortify  one  so? 
Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking  my  heart  at  his  indiffer- 
ence, I'll  only  break  my  glass  for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to 
newer  fashion,  and  look!  out  for  some  less  difficult 


SUE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hard.  Bravely  resolved  !  In  the  meantime,  I'll  go  prepare  the 
servants  for  his  reception  :  as  we  seldom  see  company,  they  want 
as  much  training  as  a  company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  (Alone].  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts  me  all  in  a 
flutter.  Young,  handsome;  these  he  put  last;  but  I  put  them 
foremost.  Sensible,  good-natured;  I  like  all  that.  But  then 
reserved  and  sheepish,  that's  much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be 
cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ? 
Yes  ;  and  can't  I  ?  but  I  vow  I'm  disposing  of  the  husband,  be- 
fore I  have  secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville,  my  dear.  Tell  me, 
Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  evening  ?  Is  there  anything  whim- 
sical about  me  ?  Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking  davs,  child  ?  am  I 
in  face  to-day  ? 

Miss  Nev.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look  again  —  bless 
me  !  —  sure  no  accident  has  happened  among  the  canary  birds  or 
the  gold  fishes.  Has  your  brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  ?  or 
has  the  last  novel  been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have  been  threatened 
—I  can  scarce  get  it  out  —  I  have  been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Nev.  And  his  name  — 

Miss  Hard.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Nti>.  Indeed  I 

Miss  Hard.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Nev.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Hastings, 
my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder.  I  believe  you  must  have 
seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hard.  Never. 

Miss  Nev.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  assure  you.  Among 
women  of  reputation  and  virtue,  he  is  the  modestest  man  alive  ; 
but  his  acquaintance  give  him  a  very  different  character  among 
creatures  of  another  stamp  ;  you 

Miss  Hard.  An  odd  "K 
to  manage  hirp 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  KJ. 


but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own 
affair,  ray  dear  ?  has  my  mother  been  courting  you  for  my  brother 
Tony  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Nev.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our  agreeable  tete-h- 
tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred  tender  things,  and  setting 
off  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very  pink  of  perfection. 

Miss  Hard.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she  actually  thinks 
him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no  small  temptation.  Besides,  as 
she  has  the  sole  management  of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see  hei 
unwilling  to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Nev.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly  consists  in  jewels 
is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But  at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings 
be  but  constant,  I  make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last 
However,  I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son  ;  and 
she  never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hard.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly.  I  could  almost 
love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Nev.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at  bottom  ;  and  I'm 
sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  anybody  but  himself.  BUT 
my  aunt's  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon's  walk  round  the  improve 
ments.  Allons  !  Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hard.  "  Would  it  were  bed-time,  and  all  were  well." 

\Exeuni 

SCENE  —  An  Alehouse  Room. 

Sei>er  al  shabby  fellows  with  punch  and  tobacco.     TONY  at  the  hca<l 
of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  a  mallet  in  his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea  !  hurrea  !  hurrea  !  bravo  1 

First  fel.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song.  The  'squire  is 
going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 

Omnes.  Ay,  a  song  !  a  song  ! 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I  made  upon  this 
alehouse,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning} 

Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 
Gives  £?»»;  a  better  discerning. 


SHh   STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  qui's,  and  their  quae's,  and  theit  quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroIL 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
111  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinfuL 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
111  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroIL 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever  ! 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons  ; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  torofl. 

Omnes.  Bravo  !  bravo  ! 

First  Pel.  The  'squire  has  got  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fd.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays  he  never  gives  us 
nothing  that's  low. 

Tkird  Pel.  O  d  -  any  thing  that's  low,  I  cannot  bear  it. 

Fourth  Fd.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel  thing  at  any  time  : 
if  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a  concatenation  accordingly. 

Third  Fd.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master  Muggins.  What, 
though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman 
'.or  all  that  May  this  be  my  poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but 
;u  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes  ;  '  Water  parted,'  or  '  The  minuet 
in  Ariadne.' 

Second  Fd,  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'squire  is  not  come  to  his  own  ( 
li  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans  within  ten  miles  round  of 
hi  in. 

•:'".?//v.  Ecod  !  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang  ;  I'd  then  show  what 
U  wa>  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

$ccond  Fd.  O,  he  takes  after  his  own  father  for  that,    To  b« 


174  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

sure  old  'Squire  Lumpkin  was  the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  ray 
eyes  on.  For  winding  the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a 
hare,  or  a  wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in  the 
place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls,  in  the  whole 
county. 

Tony.  Ecod !  and  when  I'm  of  age,  I'll  be  no  bastard,  I  pro- 
mise you.     I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  and  the  miller's 
grey  mare  to  begin  with.    But  come,  my  boys,  drink  about  and  be 
merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning.   Well,  Stingo,  what's  the  matter? 
Enter  LANDLORD. 

Land.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise  at  the  door. 
They  have  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest ;  and  they  are  talking 
something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the  gentleman 
that's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do  they  seem  to  be  Lon- 
doners ? 

Land.  I  believe  they  may.     They  look  woundily  like  French- . 
men. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I'll  set  them  right 
in  a  twinkling.  (Exit  LANDLORD).  Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be 
good  enough  company  for  you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I'll 
be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon.  \Exeunt  Mob. 

Tony  (alone).  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me  \rhelp  and 
hound  this  half-year.  Now  if  I  pleased,  I  could  be  so  revenged 
upon  the  old  grumbletonian  !  But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid  of  what  ? 
I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten 
me  out  of  that  if  he  can. 

Enter  LANDLORD  conducting  MARLOW  and  HASTINGS. 

Mar.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we  had  of  it ! 
We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across  the  country,  and  we 
have  come  above  threescore. 

Hast.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable  reserve  of 
yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Mar.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay  myself  under  an 
obligation  to  every  one  I  meet,  and  often  stand  She  chance  of  an 
unmannerly  answej. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  COKQUES. 


hast.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to  receive  any 
answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told  you  have  been  in- 
quiring for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle  in  these  parts.  Do  you  know  what 
part  of  the  country  you  are  in  ? 

Hast.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank  you  for  infor- 
mation. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hast.  No,  sir  ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us  — 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road  you  are 
going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came,  the  first  thing 
I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that  —  you  have  lost  your  way. 

Mar.   We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  thaU 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  the  p!ace 
from  whence  you  came  ? 

Mar.  That's  not  necessary  toward  directing  us  where  we  are 
to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence  ;  but  question  for  question  is  all  fair,  you 
know.  —  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same  Hardcastle  a  cross- 
grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical  fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a 
daughter,  and  a  pretty  son  ? 

Hast.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman  ;  but  he  has  the  family 
you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping,  talkative  may- 
pole ;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable  youth,  that  everybody 
is  fond  of? 

Mar.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The  daughter  is  said  to 
be  well-bred,  and  beautiful  ;  the  son  an  awkward  booby,  reared 
up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's  apron-strings. 

Tony.  He-he-hem  !  —  Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to  tell  you  is, 
that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  this  night,  1  believe. 

Hast.  Unfortunate  ! 

Tony.  It's  a  d  -  d  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  dangerous  way. 
Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  !  (  Winking 
up<m  the  LANDLORD.)  Mr.  Hardca$Ue's  of  Quagmire  Marsh  ?  you 
me? 


I76  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Land.  Master  Hardcastle's !   lack-a-daisy,  my  master 
come  a  deadly  deal  wrong  !     When  you  came  the   bo 
the  hill,  you  should  have  crossed  down  Squash  Lane. 

Mar.  Crossed  down  Squash  Lane  ! 

Land.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward,  till  you  came  to 
four  roads. 

Mar.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet? 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one  of  them. 

Mar.  O,  sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  sideways,  till 
you  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common ;  there  you  must  look  sharp 
for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  Farmer 
Murrain's  barn.  Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to 
the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right-about  again, 
till  you  find  out  the  old  mill. 

Mar.  Zounds,  man  !  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the  longitude  i 

Hast.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Mar.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception ;  though  per- 
haps the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Land.  Alack,  master  !  we  have  but  one  spare  bed  in  the  whole 
house. 

Tony.  And,  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken  up  by  three  lodgers 
already.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  tlie  rest  seem  disconcerted?)  I  have 
it.  Don't  you  think,  Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate 
the  gentlemen  by  the  fireside,  with — three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Hast.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Mar.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you? — then,  let  me  see — what  if  you  go  on 
a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck's  Head  ;  the  old  Buck's  Head,  on  the 
hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county  ? 

Hast.  O  ho  !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for  this  night, 
however. 

Land.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  Sure,  you  ben't  sending  them  to  your 
father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out.  (To  them.) 
You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward,  till  vou  come  to  a 


s//e  smops  TO  CONQUER. 


large  old  house  by  the  road  side.  You'll  see  a  pair  of  lar,'e  hon-.s 
over  the  door.  That's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard  and  call 
stoutly  about  you. 

Hast.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants  can't  miss  the 
way  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  but  I  tell  you,  though,  the  landlord  is  rich,  and 
going  to  leave  off  business  ;  so  he  wants  to  be  thought  a  gentle- 
man, saving  your  presence,  he  !  he  !  He'll  be  for  giving  you  his 
company  ;  and,  ecod  !  if  you  mind  him,  he'll  persuade  you  that 
fiis  mother  was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Land.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  keeps  as 
good  wines  and  beds  as  any  man  in  the  whole  country. 

Mar.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall  want  no  further 
connection.  We  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  straight  forward,  I'll  just  step  myself,  and  show 
you  a  piece  of  the  way.  (To  the  Landlord.']  Mum  ! 

Land.  Ah  !  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleasant  —  d  -  d 
mischievous  fool.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IL 

SCENE  —  An  Old-fashioned  House. 
Enter  HARDCASTLE,/^//I?WA/  by  three  or  four  awkward  SERVANTS. 

Hard.  WELL,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the  table  exercise  I 
have  been  teaching  you  these  three  days.  You  all  know  your 
posts  and  your  places,  and  can  show  that  you  have  been  used  to 
good  company,  without  ever  stirring  from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hard.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop  out  and 
stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted  rabbits  in  a  warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from  the  barn,  are  to 
make  a  show  at  the  side-table  ;  and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have 
advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair. 
But  you're  not  to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 
Take  your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger  ;  and  from  your  head, 

is 


GOLDSMITH* S  fLAYS. 


yen  blockhead  you.  See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They're 
a  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that's  no  great  matter. 

Dig.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to  hold  my  hands 
this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for  the  militia.  And  so  being 
upon  drill 

Hard.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory.  You  must  be 
all  attention  to  the  guests.  You  must  hear  us  talk,  and  not  think 
of  talking ;  you  must  see  us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking ; 
you  must  see  us  eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Dig.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's  perfectly  unpossible. 
Whenever  Diggory  sees  eating  going  forward,  ecod !  he's  always 
wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hard.  Blockhead !  Is  not  a  bellyful  in  the  kitchen  as  good 
as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlour?  Stay  your  stomach  with  that  re- 
flection. 

Dig.  Ecod  !  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make  a  shift  to  stay  my 
stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in  the  pantry. 

Hard.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative. — Then  if  I  happen  to 
say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at  table,  you  must  not  all 
burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you  made  part  of  the  company. 

Dig.  Then  ecod !  your  worship  must  not  tell  the  story  of  Old 
Grouse  in  the  gun-room  :  I  can't  help  laughing  at  that — he  !  he  ! 
he  ! — for  the  soul  of  me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty 
years — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  story  is  a  good  one.  Well,  honest 
Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that — but  still  remember  to  be  atten- 
tive. Suppose  one  of  the  company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine, 
how  will  yon  behave  ?  A  gUss  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please.  (To 
Diggory]— Eh,  why  don't  you  move  ? 

Dig.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage  till  I  see  the 
eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upon  the  table,  and  then  I'm  aa 
baald  as  a  lion. 

Hani.  What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

Pint  Sen.  I'm  not  to  have  this  place. 

Sfcoftd  S:*v.  I'm  sure  il's  no  ;  lace  of  mine. 

Third  S.*rv.  Nor  mine*  for  sa**ain. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO 


179 


Dig.  Wauns  !  and  I'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hard.  You  numbskulls  !  and  so  while,  like  your  betters,  you 
are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must  be  starved.  O  you 

dunces  !  I  find  I  must  begin  all  over  again But  don't  I  hear 

a  coach  drive  into  the  yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you  blockheads. 
I'll  go  in  the  meantime  and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty  re- 
ception at  the  gate.  [Exit  HARDCASTLE. 

Dig.  By  the  elevens  !  my  place  is  gone  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  everywhere. 

First  Serv.  Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 

Second  Serv.  My  place  is  to  be  nowhere  at  all ;  and  so  Fze  go 
about  my  business. 

[Exeunt  SERVANTS,  running  about,  as  if  frightened, 
different  ways. 

Enter  SERVANT  with  candles,  showing  in  MARLOW  and  HASTINGS. 

Serv.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome  !     This  way. 

Hast.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  welcome  once 
more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room  and  a  good  fire. 
Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking  house  ;  antique,  but  creditable. 

Mar.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having  first  ruined 
the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last  comes  to  levy  contri- 
butions as  an  inn. 

Hast.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to  pay  all 
these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  sideboard,  or  a  marble 
chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a 
reckoning  confoundedly. 

Mar.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places ;  the  only 
difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly  for  luxuries,  in  bad 
inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hast.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  thefj.  In  truth,  I 
have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the 
world,  with  your  natural  good  sense,  and  your  many  opportunities, 
could  never  yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Mar.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me,  George,  where 
could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you  talk  of?  My  life  has 
been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or  an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that 

12 — 2 


PLA  VS. 


>vely  part  of  the  creation  thai  elm  fly  teach  men  confidence. 
,ion't  know  that  1  was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single 
modest  woman,  except  my  mother.— But  among  females  of  anothei 
class  you  know 

Hast.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough  of  all  con- 
science. 

Mar.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hast.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation  I  never  saw 
such  an  idiot,  such  a  trembler  ;  you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if 
you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

Mar.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want  to  steal  out  of  the 
room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution  to  break  the  ice, 
and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I  don't  know  how,  a  single 
glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my  resolution. 
An  impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I'll  be  hanged 
if  a  modest  man  can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hast.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to  them,  that  I 
have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn,  or  even  a 
college  bedmaker — 

Mar.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to  them  ;  they  freeze, 
they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of  a  comet,  or  a  burning  moun- 
tain, or  some  such  bagatelle  ;  but  to  me,  a  modest  woman,  dressed 
out  in  all  her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole 
creation. 

Hast.  Ha !  ha !  ha  1  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can  you  evei 
expect  to  marry  ? 

Mar.  Never ;  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes,  my  bride 
were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like  an  eastern  bride- 
groom, one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a  wife  he  never  saw  before, 
it  might  be  endured.  But  to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal 
courtship,  together  with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers,  and 
cousins,  and  at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of, 
"Madam,  will  you  marry  me?"  No,  no;  that's  a  strain  much 
above  me,  I  assure  you. 

Hast.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  behaving  to  the 
lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  request  of  your  father? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  i8r 

Mar.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.  Bow  very  low  :  answer 
yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands —  But  for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I 
shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face  till  I  see  my  father's  again, 

Hast.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a  friend,  can  be 
so  cool  a  lover. 

Mar.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief  inducement 
down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding  your  happiness,  not 
my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you ;  as 
my  friend  you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let  honour  do  the  rest 

Hast.  My  dear  Mario w  !  But  I'll  suppress  the  emotion..  Were 
I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off  a  fortune,  you  should  be 
the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But 
Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her 
deceased  father's  consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Mar.  Happy  man  !  You  have  talents  and  art  to  captivate  any 
woman.  I'm  doomed  to  adore  the  sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with 
the  only  part  of  it  I  despise.  This  stammer  in  my  address,  and 
this  awkward  unprepossessing  visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit 
me  to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one  of  the 
duchesses  of  Drury  Lane.  Pshaw !  this  fellow  here  to  Interrupt  us. 
Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily  welcome.  Which 
is  Mr.  Marlow?  Sir,  you  are  heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my 
way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I 
like  to  give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at  my  gate. 
I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken  care  of. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  servants  already. 
(To  him.)  We  approve  your  caution  and  hospitality,  sir.  (Ta 
Hastings.)  I  have  been  thinking,  George,  of  changing  our  travelling 
dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  ot 
mine. 

Hard.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  ceremony  in  thii 
house. 

Hast.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you're  right :  the  first  blow  is  half  the 
battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign  with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hard.  Mr,  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings — gentlemen — pray,  be  under 


eoLDSMirrrs  PL  A  vs. 


no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  gentlemen.  You 
may  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Mar.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too  fiercely  at  first, 
we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over.  I  think  to  reserve 
the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow,  puts  me  in  mind 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  we  went  to  besiege  Denain. 
He  first  summoned  the  garrison  — 

Mar.  Don't  you  think  the  venire  (for  waistcoat  will  do  with  the 
plain  brown? 

Hard:  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of 
about  five  thousand  men  — 

Hast.  I  think  not  :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but  very  poorly. 

Hard.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he  summoned 
the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men  — 

Mar.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men,  well 
appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and  other  implements  of  war. 
Now,  says  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood 
next  to  him-ryou  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks  —  I'll  pawn 
my  dukedom,  says  he,  but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a 
drop  of  blood.  So  — 

Mar.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a  glass  of  punch  in 
the  meantime,  it  would  help  us  to  carry  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hard.  Punch,  sir  !  (Aside.)  This  is  the  most  unaccountable 
kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 

Mar.  Yes,  sir,  punch.  A  glass  of  warm  punch,  after  our  journey, 
will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know. 

Enter  ROGER  with  a  cup. 

Hard.  Here's  a  cup,  sir. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty  Hall,  will  only  let 
ns  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hard.  (Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find  it  to  your  mind.  I 
have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the 
ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me, 


STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  183 


sir?    Here,  Mr.   Marlow,  here   is  to   our  better   acquaintance. 
(Drinks.) 

Mar.  (Aside.)  A  very  impudent  fellow  this  !  but  he's  a  cha- 
racter, and  I'll  humour  him  a  little.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 
(Drinks) 

Hast.  (Aside.)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his  company, 
and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper,  before  he  has  learned  to  be  a 
gentleman. 

Mar.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old  friend,  I  suppose 
you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in  this  part  of  the  country.  Warm 
work,  now  and  then,  at  elections,  I  suppose? 

Hard.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work  over.  Since  our 
betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  electing  each  other,  there 
is  no  business  "  for  us  that  sell  ale." 

Hast.  So  then  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I  find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least  There  was  a  time,  indeed,  I  fretted 
myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government,  like  other  people,  but 
finding  myself  every  day  grow  more  angry,  and  the  government 
gnowing  no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more 
trouble  my  head  about  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn  than  about 
Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs,  and  drinking  below, 
with  receiving  your  friends  within,  and  amusing  them  without, 
you  lead  a  good  pleasant  bustling  life  of  it 

Hard.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's  certain.  Half  the 
differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this  very  parlour. 

Mar.  (After  drinking.)  And  you  have  an  argument  in  your  cup, 
old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little  philosophy. 

Afar.  (Aside.)  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  an 
innkeeper's  philosophy  ! 

Hast.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  attack  them  on 
every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason  manageable,  you  attack  ii 
with  your  philosophy  ;  if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack 
them  with  this.  Here's  your  health,  my  philosopher.  (Drinks.) 

Hard.   Good,  very  good,   thank  you—  ha  1   ha  1   ha  I     Youi 


tg4  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

-    .   -  j_.     .  _-,  .          _,_r_  •--.»„•,--  —F,      .- -!.-...• •   •   i       »^^*^fcM^-*|  M 

gent-rnlsh:p  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene,  when  he  fought 
the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You  shall  hear. 

Mar.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe  it's  almost 
time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your  philosophy  got  in  the 
house  for  supper  ? 

Hard.  For  supper,  sir !  (Aside.)  Was  ever  such  a  request  made 
to  a  man  in  his  own  house  ! 

Mar.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an  appetite.  I  shall 
make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hard.  (Aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never  my  eyes  beheld. 
(To  him.)  Why  really,  sir,  as  for  supper,  I  can't  well  tell.  My 
Dorothy  and  the  cook-maid  settle  these  things  between  them.  I 
leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Mar.  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By-the-by,  I  believe  they  are  in  actual  con- 
sultation upon  what's  for  supper  this  moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Mar.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of  their  privy-council. 
It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I  travel  I  always  choose  to  regulate 
my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook  be  called.  No  offence,  1  hope, 
sir? 

Hard.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least;  yet  I  don't  know  how;  our 
Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not  very  communicative  upon  these 
occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of 
the  house. 

Hast.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I  ask  it  as  a 
favour.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  (To  HARDCASTLE,  who  looks  at  them  with  surprise.}  Sir, 
he's  very  right,  and  it's  niy  way  to6. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here.  Here,  Roger, 
bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's  supper :  I  believe  it's  drawn 
out. — Your  manner,  Mr.  Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle, 
Colonel  Wallop.  It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of 
his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Re-enter  ROGER. 
Hast.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope !    His  uncle  a  colonel  I 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  185 

we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a  justice  of  peace.     Bu 
let's  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  (Perusing.}  What's  here?  "For  the  first  course  ;  for  the 
second  course  ;  for  the  dessert."  The  devil,  sir,  do  you  think  wt 
have  brought  down  the  whole  Joiners'  company,  or  the  corpora 
tion  of  Bedford,  to  eat  up  such  a  supper  ?  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hast.  But  let's  hear  it. 

Mar.  (Reading.)  "  For  the  first  course  at  the  top,  a  pig,  and 
pruin  sauce." 

Hast.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Mar.  And  damn  your  pruin  sauce,  say  I. 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry,  pig  with 
pruin  sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Mar.  "  At  the  bottom  a  calf's  tongue  and  brains." 

Hast.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my  good  sir,  I  don't 
like  them. 

Mar.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  themselves. 

Hard.  (Aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds  me.  (To  them.) 
Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please. 
Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Mar.  Item.  "  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and  sausages,  a  Floren- 
tine, a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish  of  tiff — taff — taffety  cream." 

Hast.  Confound  your  made  dishes;  I  shall  be  as  much  at  a 
loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow  dinner  at  the  French 
ambassador's  table.  I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hard.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing  you  like,  but 
if  there  be  anything  you  have  a  particular  fancy  to — 

Mar.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  exquisite,  that  any 
one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another.  Send  us  what  you  please. 
So  much  for  supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and 
properly  taken  care  of. 

Hard.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You  shall  not  stir 
a  step. 

Mar.  Leave  that  to  you !  I  protest,  sir,  you  must  excuse  me, 
\  always  look  to  these  things  mysel£ 


,86  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


Hard.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself  easy  on  that 
head. 

Mar.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it  (Aside.)  A  very  trouble- 
some fellow  this,  as  I  ever  met  with. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  attend  you.  (AsiJf.) 
This  may  be  modern  modesty,  but  I  never  saw  anything  look  so 
like  old-fashioned  impudence. 

[Exeunt  MARLOW  and  HARDCASTI.E. 

Hast.  (Alone.')  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities  begin  to  grow 
troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at  those  assiduities  which 
are  meant  to  please  him? — Ha!  what  do  I  see?  Miss  Neville, 
by  all  that's  happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  Hastings  !  To  what  unexpected  good 
fortune,  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  ascribe  this  happy  meeting  ? 

Hast.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as  I  could  never 
have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Constance  at  an  inn. 

Miss  Nev.  An  inn  !  sure  you  mistake  :  my  aunt,  my  guardian, 
lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to  think  this  house  an  inn  ? 

Hast.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I  came  down,  and 
I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure  you.  A  young 
fellow,  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us 
hither. 

Miss  Nev.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hopeful  cousin's 
tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hast.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you  ?  he  of  whom  I  have 
such  just  apprehensions? 

Miss  Nev.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  I  assure  you. 
You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how  heartily  he  despises  me.  My 
aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and 
actually  begins  to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hast.  Thou  dear  dissembler  !  You  must  know,  my  Constance, 
I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportunity  of  my  friend's  visit  here 
to  get  admittance  into  the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us 
down  are  now  fatigued  with  their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be 
refreshed ;  a»d  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her  fjuthfyj 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hastings,  we  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among 
slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  A'ev.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though  ready  to  obey 
you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  behind  with  reluctance. 
The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  India  director, 
and  chiefly  consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time  per- 
suading my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them.  I  fancy  I'm  very  near 
succeeding.  The  instant  the;  are  put  into  my  possession,  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hast.  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is  all  I  desire.  In  the 
meantime,  my  friend  Marlow  must  not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I 
know  the  strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if  abruptly 
informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan 
was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Nev.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the  deception  ?  Miss 
Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from  walking  ;  what  if  we  still  con- 
tinue to  deceive  him?  —  This,  this  way  -  \They  confer. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease  me  beyond 
bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill  manners  to  leave  me 
alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself  but  his  old-fashioned  wife 
on  my  back.  They  talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too;  and  then, 
I  suppose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the 
family.  —  What  have  we  got  here  ? 

Hast.  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratulate  you  !  —  The  most 
fortunate  accident  !  —  Who  do  you  think  is  just  alighted? 

Mar.  Cannot  guess. 

Hast.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 
Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Constance  Neville  to  your 
acquaintance.  Happening  to  dine  in  the  neighbourhood,  they 
called  on  their  return  to  take  fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle 
has  just  stepped  into  the  next  room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant 
Wasn't  it  lucky  ?  eh  ! 

Mar.  (Aside.)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of  all  conscience, 
and  here  comes  something  to  complete  my  embarrassment 

Hast.  Well,  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  world? 


iSS  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Mar.  Oh  !  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most  joyful  encounter.  But 
our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are  in  disorder — what  if  we  should 
postpone  the  happiness  till  to-morrow? — To-morrow  at  her  own 
house.  It  will  be  every  bit  as  convenient,  and  rather  more  respect- 
ful. To-morrow  let  it  be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Nev.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony  will  displease  her. 
The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show  the  ardour  of  your  impatience, 
Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to 
see  her. 

Mar,  Oh  !  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  ? — Hem  !  hem  ! 
Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You  are  to  assist  me,  you  know.  1 
shall  be  confoundedly  ridiculous.  Yet,  hang  it !  I'll  take  courage. 
Hem! 

Hast.  Pshaw,  man!  it's  but  the  first  plunge,  and  all's  over.  She's 
but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Mar.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most  to  encounter. 
Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hast.  {Introducing  them.')  Miss  Hardcastle,  Mr.  Marlow.  I'm 
proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of  such  merit  together,  that  onl) 
want  to  know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside)  Now  for  meeting  my  modest  gentleman 
with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his  own  manner.  (After  a  paust, 
in  which  he  appears  very  uneasy  and  disconcerted.")  I'm  glad  of  your 
safe  arrival,  sir.  I'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Mar.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some.  Yes,  madam, 
a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be  sorry — madam — or  rather 
glad  of  any  accidents — that  are  so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem  ! 

Hast.  (To  him.)  You  never  spoke  better  in  your  whole  life. 
K.eep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir.  You  that  have  seen  so 
much  of  the  finest  company,  can  find  little  entertainment  in  an  ob- 
scure corner  of  the  country. 

Mar.  (Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed,  in  the  world, 
madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  company.  I  have  been  but  an 
observer  upon  life,  madam,  while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Nev.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to  enjoy  it  at  last. 


SITE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hast.  (To  him.}  Cicero  never  spoke  better.  Once  more  and  you 
are  confirmed  in  assurance  for  ever. 

Mar.  (To  him.)  Hem  !  stand  by  me,  then,  and  when  I'm  down, 
throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up  again. 

Miss  Hard.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life  were,  I  fear,  disa 
greeably  employed,  since  you  must  have  had  much  more  to  censure 
than  to  approve. 

Mar.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing  to  be  amused 
Tiie  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an  object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hast.  (To  him.}  Bravo,  bravo!  Never  spoke  so  well  in  youi 
whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow 
are  going  to  be  very  good  company.  I  believe  our  being  here  will 
but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Mar.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like  your  company  01 
all  things.  (To  him.}  Zounds  !  George,  sure  you  won't  go?  how 
can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hast.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation,  so  we'll  retire  to 
the  next  room.  (To  him.}  You  don't  consider,  man,  that  we  are  to 
manage  a  little  tete-a-tete  of  our  own.  [Exeunt 

Miss  Hard.  (After  a  pause.}  But  you  have  not  been  wholly  an 
observer,  I  presume,  sir;  the  ladies,  I  should  hope,  have  employed 
some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Mar.  (Relapsing  into  timidity.}  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  —  I  —  I  — 
as  yet  have  studied  —  only  —  to  —  deserve  them. 

Miss  Hard.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very  worst  way  to  obtain 
them. 

Mar.  Perhaps  so;  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse  only  with  the 
more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex  —  But  I'm  afraid  I  grow 
tiresome. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  at  all,  sir  ;  there  is  nothing  I  like  so  much  as 
grave  conversation  myself;  I  could  hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed,  I 
have  often  been  surprised  how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  ad 
mire  those  light  airy  pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Mar.  It's  -  a  disease  -  of  the  mind,  madam.  In  the  variety 
of  tastes  there  must  be  »ome  who,  wanting  a  reliph  -  for—  —  urr 
•  -  a  —  um, 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 


Miss  Plard.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There  must  be  some  who, 
wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures,  pretend  to  despise  what  they 
are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Mar,  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better  expressed.  And 
I  can't  help  observing  -  a  - 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.}  Who  could  ever  suppose  this  fellow  impu- 
dent upon  some  occasions  !  (To  him.)  You  were  going  to  observe, 
sir  - 

Mar.  I  was  observing,  madam  —  I  protest,  madam,  I  forget  what 
I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  (To  him.)  You  wera 
observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hypocrisy  —  something  about  hy- 
pocrisy, sir. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy  there  are  few  who, 
upon  strict  inquiry,  do  —  a  —  a  —  a  - 

Miss  Hard.  1  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad!  and  that's  more  than  I  do  myself. 

Miss  Hard.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocritical  age  there  are  few 
that  do  not  condemn  in  public  what  they  practise  in  private,  and 
think  they  pay  every  debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Mar.  True,  madam;  those  who  have  most  virtue  in  their  mouths 
have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But  I'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  in  the  least,  sir  ;  there's  something  so  agree- 
able and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such  life  and  force  —  pray,  sir, 
go  on. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying  -  that  there  are  some  occa- 
sions —  when  a  total  want  of  courage,  madam,  destroys  all  the— 
and  puts  us  -  upon  —  a  —  a  —  a  - 

Miss  Hard.  I  agree  with  you  entirely  ;  a  want  of  courage  upon 
some  occasions  assumes  the  appearance  of  ignorance,  and  betrays 
us  when  we  most  want  to  excel.  I  beg  you'll  proceed. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam  —  But  I  see  Miss 
Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room.  I  would  not  intrude  for 
die  world. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more  agreeably  entertainer' 
in  all  my  life.  Pray  go  on. 


ShE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  ig, 

Mar.  Yes,  madam,  I  was But  she  beckons  us  to  join  her. 

Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  attend  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Well,  then,  I'll  follow. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  has  done  for  me. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  (Alone.)  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Was  there  ever  such  a  sober 
sentimental  interview?  I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in  my  face 
the  whole  time.  Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashful- 
ness,  is  pretty  well,  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried 
in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance.  If  I  could 
teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be  doing  somebody  that  I 
know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that  somebody  ? — That, 
faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY  and  Miss  NEVILLE,  followed  by  MRS.  HARDCASTLB 
and  HASTINGS. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  Cousin  Con  ?  I  wonder  you're 
not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  one's  own  relations, 
and  not  be  to  bi-me. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you  want  to  make 
me,  though  ;  but  it  won't  do.    I  tell  you,  Cousin  Con,  it  won't  do; 
so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance,  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 
[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  back  Scent. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you  are  very  entertain- 
ing. There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as 
London,  and  the  fashions,  though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hast.  Never  there !  You  amaze  me !  From  your  air  and  man- 
ner, I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your  life  either  at  Ranelagh, 
St.  James's,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

.    Mrs.  Hard.  Oh!  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to  say  so.  We  country 

persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all    I'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and 

iuit  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighbouring  rustics  ; 

•>ut  who  can  have  a  manner  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the 

>rotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such  places,  where  the  nobility 

^iiicfly  resort  ?    All  I  can  do  is,  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 

i  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous  Magazine, 


tO«  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  K? 


ind  have  all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two 
Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane.  Pray,  how  do  you  like  this  head, 
Mr.  Hastings? 

Hast.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon  my  word,  madam. 
Vour  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from  a  print  in  the 
"  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  "  for  the  last  year. 

Hast.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at  the  play-house 
would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,  there  is  no  such 
thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman,  so  one  must  dress  a  little  par- 
ticular, or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hast.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam,  in  any  dress. 

[Boiving. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing  when  I  have  such  a 
piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle?  all  I  can  say  will 
never  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often 
wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was 
bald  to  plaster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

Hast.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among  the  ladies  there  are 
none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer  was  ?  Why,  with 
his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw  off 
his  wig,  to  convert  it  into  a  tvte  for  my  own  wearing. 

Hast.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may  wear  what  you  please, 
and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you  take  to  be  the 
most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hast.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode  ;  but  I'm  told  the 
ladies  mean  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously.  Then  I  shall  be  too  young  for  the  fashion. 

Hast.  No  lady  now  begins  to  put  on  jewels  till  she's  past  forty. 
For  instance,  miss  there,  in  a  polite  circle,  would  be  considered  as 
a  child,  as  a  mere  maker  of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hird.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks  herself  as  much  a 
woman,  aad  is  as  fond  of  jewels,  as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  COtfQURR.  193 

Hast.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that  young  gentleman,  a 
brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  hard.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted  to  each  other. 
Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a-day, 
as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already.  (To  them.)  Well,  Tony, 
child,  what  soft  things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance 
this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things ;  but  that  it's  very  hard 
to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod  !  I've  not  a  place  in  the  house 
now  that's  left  to  myself,  but  the  stable. 

Airs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear ;  he's  in  another 
story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Nev.  There's  something  generous  in  my  cousin's  manner. 
He  falls  out  before  faces  to  be  forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  d d  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you  think  they're  like 
each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr.  Hastings  ?  The  Bleukinsop 
mouth  to  a  T.  They're  of  a  size  too.  Back  to  ba<  k,  my  pretties, 
that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you.    {Measuring  } 

Miss  Nev.  O  lud  !  he  has  almost  cracked  my  head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  the  monster !  For  shame,  Tony.  You  a  man, 
and  behave  so  ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod  !  I'll  not  bt 
made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I'm  to  get  for  the 
pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ?  I  that  have  rocked  you 
in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon !  Did 
not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  1 
prescribe  for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt  wa* 
operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod  !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have  been  dosin^ 
me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone  through  every  receipt  in 
the  Complete  Housewife  ten  times  over  ;  and  you  have  thoughts 
of  coursing  me  through  Quincey,  next  spring.  But,  ecod  1  I  tell 
you,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 


194  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAVS. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good,  viper  ?  Wasn't  il  all 
for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  and  my  good  alone,  then. 
Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits.  If  I'm  to  have  any  good, 
let  it  come  of  itself ;  not  to  keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That's  false ;  I  never  see  you  when  you're  in  spirits. 
No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  alehouse  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to 
be  delighted  with  your  agreeable  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster ! 

Tony.  Ecod!  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wildest  of  the 
two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I  see  he  wants  to  break 
my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

Hast.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the  young  gentleman 
a  little.  I'm  certain  I  can  persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  must  retire.     Come,  Constance,  my  love. 

You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretchedness  of  my  situation  :  was 

ever  poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking, 

undutiful  boy  ?      [Exeunt  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  Miss  NEVILLE, 

HASTINGS  and  TONY. 

Tony.  (Singing.) 

**  There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 
And  fain  would  have  his  will. 

Rang  do  didlo  dee." 

Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  comfort  of  her  heart  I 
have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an  hour  together; 
and  they  said  they  liked  the  book  the  better  the  more  it  made 
them  cry. 

Hast.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I  find,  my  pretty 
young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'urn. 

Hast.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing,  I  dare  answer? 
And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  so  well  as  I.  Ecodl 
I  know  every  inch  about  her;  and  there's  not  a  more  bitter 
cantankerous  toad  in  all  Christendom. 

Hast,  (Aside.)  Pretty  encouragement  this  for  a  lover  I 


SffE  STOOPS  TO  COKQUER.  19$ 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that.  She  has  as 
many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt  the  first  day's 
breaking. 

Hast.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent 
Tony.  Ay,  before  company.     But   when  she's  with  her  play- 
mates, she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hast.   But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her  that  charms  me. 
Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks  up,  and  you're 
flung  in  the  ditch. 

Hast.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little  beauty. — Yes,  you 
must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox !  She's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun.  Ah  !  could 
you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you  might  then  talk  of 
beauty.  Ecod  !  she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as 
broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hast.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would  take  this  bittei 
bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anan  ! 

Hast.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take  Miss  Neville,  and 
leave  you  to  happiness  and  your  dear  Betsy  ? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for  who  would  take 
her? 

Hast.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  engage  to  whip  her 
off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood 
I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise  that  shall  trundle  you  oh 
in  a  twinkling,  and  maybe  get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  beside  in 
jewels  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hast.  My  dear  'squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of  my  spiri. 
before  you  have  done  with  me,  (•&'<£"#• ) 


••  We  are  the  boys 
That  fear  no  noise 

cannons  roar. 


[Exeunt. 


196  GOLDSMITHS  PLATS. 

ACT  III. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  alone. 

Hard.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles  mean  by  recom- 
mending his  son  as  the  modestest  young  man  in  town  ?  To  me 
he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of  brass  that  ever  spoke  with 
a  tongue.  He  has  taken  possession  of  the  easy-chair  by  the 
fireside  already.  He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlour,  and 
desired  me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how 
his  impudence  affects  my  daughter.  She  will  certainly  be  shocked 
at  it 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE,  plainly  dressed. 

Hard,  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed  your  dress,  as  I 
bid  you  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was  no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hard.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in  obeying  your  com- 
mands, that  I  take  care  to  observe  them  without  ever  debating 
their  propriety. 

Hard.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you  some  cause,  par- 
ticularly when  I  recommended  my  modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a 
lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hard.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something  extraordinary, 
and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the  description. 

Hard.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  !  He  has  quite  con- 
founded all  my  faculties  ! 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it :  and  a  man  of  the 
world  too ! 

Hard.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad — what  a  fool  was  I,  to  think 
a  young  man  could  learn  modesty  by  travelling.  He  might  as 
soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hard.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hard.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company  and  a  French 
dancing-master. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa !  A  French  dancing-master 
could  never  have  taught  him  that  timid  look — that  awkward 
address — that  bashful  manner. 

Hard.  Whose  look  ?  whose  manner,  child  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  197 

Miss  Hard.  Mr.    Marlow's:   his  mauvaise  honte,  his   tmii.Iity 
struck  me  at  the  first  sight 

Hard.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you ;  for  I  think  him  one 
of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that  ever  astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally  1  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
modest. 

Hard.  And  can  you  be  serious  ?  I  never  saw  such  a  bouncing, 
swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born. — Bully  Dawson  was  but  a 
fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Surprising  !  He  met  me  with  a  respectful  bow,  a 
stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hard.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly  air,  and  a  fami- 
liarity that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hard.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and  respect ;  cen- 
sured the  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired  the  prudence  of  girls  that 
never  laughed  ;  tired  me  with  apologies  for  being  tiresome ;  then 
'eft  the  room  with  a  bow,  and  "  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world 
'tetain  you." 

Hard.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his  life  before ; 
isked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited  for  an  answer ;  inter- 
rupted my  best  remarks  with  some  silly  pun ;  and  when  I  was  in 
ny  best  story  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he 
isked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he 
sked  your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch  ! 

Miss  Hard.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mistaken. 

Hard.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself,  I'm  determined  he 
shall  never  have  my  consent 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take  him,  he  shall 
never  have  mine. 

Hard.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — to  reject  hinx. 

Miss  Hard.  Yes ;  but  upon  conditions.  For  if  you  should  fin-1 
him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  presuming ;  if  you  find  him  more 
respectful,  and  I  more  importunate — I  don't  know — the  fellow  is 
well  enough  for  a  man — Certainly  we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a 
horse-race  in  the  country. 

Hard.  If  we  should  find  him  so But  that's  impossible.    The 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


first  appearance  has  done  my  business.     I'm  seldom  deceived  in 
that. 

Miss  Hard.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good  qualities  under 
that  first  appearance. 

Hard.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside  to  her  taste,  she 
then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of  his  furniture.  With  her  a 
smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for  every 
virtue. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun  with  a  compli- 
ment to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with  a  sneer  at  my  under- 
standing ? 

Hard.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr.  Brazen  can  find 
the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions,  he  may  please  us  boih, 
perhaps. 

Miss  Hard.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken,  what  if  we  go 
to  make  farther  discoveries  ? 

Hard.  Agreed.     But  depend  on't,  I'm  in  the  right. 

Miss  Hard.  And  depend  on't,  I'm  not  much  in  the  wrong. 

[Exeunt, 
Enter  TONY,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are.  My  cousin 
Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother  shan't  cheat  the  poor 
souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither.  Oh  !  my  genus,  is  that  you  ? 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed  with  your  mother  ? 
I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with  pretending  love  for  your  cousin, 
and  that  you  are  willing  to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses 
will  be  refreshed  in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to 
set  off 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your  charges  by  the  way 
(giving  the  casket)  ;  your  sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep  them  ;  and 
hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one  of  them. 

Hast.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from  your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  fibs.  I  procured 
them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer 


SfrE  STOOPS  TO  CONQ&ER.  199 

in  mother's  bureau,  bow  could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I 
do? — An  honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

///rf.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But  to  be  plain  with  you, 
Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring  to  procure  them  from  her  aunt  this 
very  instant.  If  she  succeeds,  it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way  at 
least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will  be.  But  I 
know  how  it  will  be  well  enough,  she'd  as  soon  part  with  the  only 
sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hast.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment,  when  she  finds 
she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave  me  to  manage 
that  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the  bounce  of  a  cracker. 
Zounds  !  here  they  are.  Morrice  !  prance  !  [Exit  HASTINGS. 

TONY,  MRS.  HARDCASTLE,  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me.  Such  a  girl 
as  you  want  jewels  !  It  will  be  time  enough  for  jewels,  my  dear, 
twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beauty  begins  tc  want  repairs. 

Miss  Nev.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty,  will  certainly 
improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none.  That  natural 
blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments.  Besides,  child,  jewels  are 
quite  out  at  present.  Don't  you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, my  Lady  Kill-daylight,  and  Mrs.  Crump  and  the  rest 
of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste 
and  marcasites  back  ? 

Miss  Nev.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  somebody  that  shall  be 
nameless  would  like  me  best  with  all  my  little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and  then  see  if  with 
such  a  pair  of  eyes  you  want  any  better  sparklers.  What  do  you 
vhink,  Tony,  my  dear  ?  does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels  in 
your  eyes  to  set  off  her  beauty  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Nev.   My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it  would  oblige  me 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose-and-table  cut  things. 
They  would  make  you  look  like  the  Court  of  King  Solomon  at  a 


too  GOLDSMrTffS  PLAYS. 

puppet-show.  Besides,  I  believe  I  can't  readily  come  at  them 
They  may  be  missing  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony.  (Apart  to  MRS.  HARDCASTLE.)  Then  why  don't  you  tell 
her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for  them  ?  Tell  her  they'n 
lost.  It's  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  Say  they're  lost,  and  call 
me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  You  know,  my  dear,  I'm  onh 
keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say  they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me 
witness,  will  you  ?  He  !  he  !  he ! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod  1  I'll  say  I  saw  them  taken  out 
with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Nev.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam.  Just  to  be 
permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then  they  may  be  locked  up 
again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear  COP  stance,  if  ' 
could  find  them  you  should  have  them.  They're  missing,  I  assure 
you.  Lost,  for  aught  I  know  ;  but  we  must  have  patience  wherever 
they  are. 

Miss  Nev.  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow  pretence  to 
deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable  to  be  so  slightly  kept 
and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss — 

Mrs.  Hard.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If  they  be  lost,  I 
must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my  son  knows  they  are  missing, 
and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  missing,  and  not 
to  be  found  ;  I'll  take  my  oath  on't. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my  dear ;  for  though 
we  lost  our  fortune,  yet  we  should  not  lose  our  patience.  See  me, 
how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Nev.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the  misfortunes  of 
others. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Now  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good  sense  should 
waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery*  We  shall  soon  find  them  ; 
and  in  the  meantime  you  shall  make  use  of  my  garnets  till  your 
jewels  be  found. 

Miss  Not.  I  detest  garnets. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  jol 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the  world  to  set  ofl 
a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often  seen  how  well  they  look 
upon  me  :  you  shall  have  them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nfv.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You  shan't  stir.  Was 
ever  anything  so  provoking,  to  mislay  my  own  jewels  and  force 
me  to  wear  her  trumpery  ? 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  garnets,  take  what 
you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own  already.  I  have  stolen 
them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your 
spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed  them  already. 
[Exit  Miss  NEVILLE.]  Zounds  !  how  she  fidgets  and  spits  about 
like  a  Catherine  wheel. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Confusion !  thieves  1  robbers !  we  are  cheated, 
plundered,  broke  open,  undone  ! 

Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter,  mamma  ?  I  hope 
nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good  family. 

Mrs.  Hard.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has  been  broken  open, 
the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm  undone. 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Ha  1  ha !  ha !  By  the  laws,  I  never  saw 
it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I  thought  you  was  ruined  in 
earnest — ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest — My  bureau  has 
been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that— ha  !  ha  !  ha !— stick  to  that  I'll  bear  wit- 
ness, you  know ;  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's  precious,  the  jewels 
are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  for  ever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I'm  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. — They're  gone,  I 
say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to  laugh-  -ha!  ha! 
I  know  who  took  them  well  enough — ha  1  ha  1  ha  I 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead,  that  can't  tell  tht 


aoa  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  KS 

difference  between  jest  and  earnest  ?    I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest, 
booby. 

Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right ;  you  must  be  in  a  bitter  passion, 
and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of  us.  I'll  bear  witness  that 
they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grained  brute,  that 
won't  hear  me  ?  Can  you  bear  witness  that  you're  no  better  than  a 
fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and 
thieves  on  the  other  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mrs.  Hard.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead  you,  and  I'll 
turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. — My  poor  niece,  what  will  be- 
come of  her !  Do  you  laugh,  you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed 
my  distress  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mrs.  Hard.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster  ?  I'll  teach  you  to 
vex  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that  (He  runs  offt  she  follows 
him.) 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE  and  MAID. 

Miss  Hard.  What  an  unaccountable  creature  is  that  brother  of 
mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as  an  inn — ha !  ha !  I  don't 
wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentleman,  as  you 
passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked  me  if  you  were  the  barmaid. 
He  mistook  you  for  the  barmaid,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'm  resolved  to  keep  up 
the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple,  how  do  you  like  my  present 
dress  ?  Don't  you  think  I  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the 
Beaux's  Stratagem  ? 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  <*ears  in  the 
country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

Miss  Hard.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not  remember  my  face 
or  person  ? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hard.  I  vow  I  thought  so;  for  though  we  spoke  tor  some 


STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  203 


time  together,  yet  his  fears  were  such  that  he  never  once  looked 
up  during  the  interview.  Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would 
have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in  this  mis- 
take? 

Miss  Hard.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen,  and  that  is  no 
small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I 
shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaintance,  and  that's  no  small  victory 
gained  over  one  who  never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  our 
sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard, 
and,  like  an  invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine  the  giant's 
force  before  I  offer  to  combat 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and  disguise 
your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he  has  already  mis- 
taken your  person  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have  got  the  true  bar 
cant  —  Did  your  honour  call  ?  —  Attend  the  Lion  there.  —  Pipes  and 
tobacco  for  the  An^el.  —  The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  haH 
hour. 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here.  [Exit  MAID 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house.  I  have  scarce 
a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best  room,  there  I  find  my 
host  and  his  story  ;  if  I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there  we  have  my 
hostess  with  her  courtesy  down  to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  got 
a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for  recollections.  —  (  Walks  and 
muses.) 

Miss  Hard.  Did  you  call,  sir?     Did  your  honour  call? 

Mar.  (Musing.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's  too  grave  and 
sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  your  honour  call  ?  (She  still  places  herself  before 
him,  he  turning  away.) 

Mar.  No,  child  (musing).  Besides,  from  the  glimpse  I  had  of 
her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Mar.  No,  no  (musing).     I  have  pleased  my  father,  h,9' 


204  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

by  coming  down,  and  111  to-morrow  please  myself  by  returning, 
(Taking  out  his  tablets  and  perusing.) 

Miss  Hard.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called,  sir  ? 

Mar.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hard.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir.  We  have  such  a 
parcel  of  servants  ! 

Mar.  No,  no,  I  tell  you  (looks  full  in  her  face).  Yes,  child,  I 
think  I  did  call  I  wanted — I  wanted — I  vow,  child,  you  are 
vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one  ashamed. 

Mar.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious  eye.  Yes,  yes, 
my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any  of  your — a — what  d'ye 
call  it  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that  these  ten  days. 

Mar.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very  little  purpose. 
Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the 
nectar  of  your  lips ;  perhaps  I  might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hard.  Nectar,!  nectar !  That's  a  liquor  there's  no  call 
for  in  these  parts.  French  I  suppose.  We  keep  no  French  wines 
here,  sir. 

Mar.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know  it.  We  brew  all 
sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I  have  lived  here  these  eighteen 
years. 

Mar.  Eighteen  years  !  Why  one  would  think,  child,  you  kept 
the  bar  before  you  was  born.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Oh  !  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age.  They  say  women 
and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Mat .  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be  much  above  forty. 
(Approaching.)  Yet  nearer  I  don't  think  so  much.  (Approaching.) 
By  coming  close  to  some  women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but 
when  we  come  very  close  indeed — (Attempting  to  kiss  her.) 

Miss  Hard.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.  One  would  think 
you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they  do  horses,  by  mark  of 
mouth. 

Mar.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill     If  you  keep 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  «oe 

me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you  and  I  can  ever  be 
acquainted  ? 

Miss  Hard.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted  with  you  ?  I 
want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I'm  sure  you  do  not  treat 
Miss  Hardcastle  that  was  here  a  while  ago  in  this  obstropalous 
manner.  I'll  warrant  me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept 
bowing  to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  was 
before  a  Justice  of  Peace. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough  !  (To  her.)  In 
awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  A  mere  awkward  squinting 
thing  ;  no,  no.  I  find  you  don't  know  me,  I  laughed  and 
rallied  her  a  little ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I 
could  not  be  too  severe, me  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Oh  !  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favourite,  I  find,  among  the 
ladies? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And  yet,  hang  me,  1 
don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow.  At  the  ladies'  cluu  in 
"own  I'm  called  their  agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my 
real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by.  My  name  is  Solomons;  Mr. 
Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your  service.  (Offering  to  salute  her.) 

Miss  Hard.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me  to  your  club,  not 
to  yourself.  And  you're  so  great  a  favourite  there,  you  say  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap,  Lady  Betty  Black- 
leg, the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs.  Langhorns,  old  Miss  Bi  Idy 
Buckskin,  and  your  humble  servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the 
place. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it  is  a  very  mtrry  place,  I  suppose  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  supper,  wine,  and  old  women  ^an 
make  us. 

Miss  Hard.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle — ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad  !  I  don't  quite  like  this  chit.  She  looks 
knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh,  child? 

Miss  Hard.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what  time  they  all  have 
for  minding  their  work  or  their  family. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  All's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at  me.  (To  her.) 
PO  you  ever  work,  child  ? 


906  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a  screen  or  a  quilt  in  the 
whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mar.  Odso  !  then  you  must  show  me  your  embroidery.  I 
embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little.  If  you  want  a  judge 
of  your  work,  you  must  apply  to  me.  (Seizing  her  hand.} 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  but  the  colours  do  not  look  well  by  candle- 
light. You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning.  (Struggling.) 

Mar.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such  beauty  fires  beyond 
the  power  of  resistance. — Pshaw !  the  father  here  !  My  old  luck  • 
I  never  nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw  ames-ace  three  times* 
following.  [Exit  MARLOW. 

Enter  HARDCASTLB,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hard.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your  modest  lover.  This 
is  your  humble  admirer,  that  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
and  only  adored  at  humble  distance,  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not 
ashamed  to  deceive  your  father  so? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he's  still  the  modest 
man  I  first  took  him  for ;  you'll  be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his  impudence  is  in- 
fectious !  Didn't  I  see  him  seize  your  hand?  Didn't  I  see  hin> 
haul  you  about  like  a  milkmaid  ?  And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect 
and  his  modesty,  forsooth ! 

Miss  Hard.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his  modesty,  that 
he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass  off  with  time,  and  the  virtues 
that  will  improve  with  age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hard.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run  mad  !  I  tell  you, 
I'll  not  be  convinced.  I  am  convinced.  He  has  scarce  been 
thret  hours  in  the  house,  and  he  has  already  encroached  on  all 
my  prerogatives.  You  may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it 
modesty:  but  my  son-in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  different 
qualifications. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince  you. 

Hard.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I  have  thoughts 
of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

*  Ames-ace  or  arobs-ace  it  two  aces  Uwown  at  the  same  time  on  two  dies, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  207 

Miss  Hard.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I  hope  to  satisfy 
you. 

Hard.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I'll  have  no  trifling 
with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open,  do  you  mind  me  ? 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found  that  I  considered 
your  commands  as  my  pride ;  for  your  kindness  is  such,  that  my 
duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Hast.  You  surprise  me  !  Sir  Charles  Marlow  expected  here  this 
night !  Where  have  you  had  your  information  ? 

Miss  Nev.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he  intends  setting  out  a  few 
hours  after  his  son. 

Hast.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  completed  before  he 
arrives.  He  knows  me ;  and  should  he  find  me  here,  would 
discover  my  name,  and  perhaps  my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Miss  Nev.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe  ? 

Hast.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow,  who  keeps  the 
keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  meantime  I'll  go  to  prepare  matters 
for  our  elopement  I  have  had  the  'squire's  promise  of  a  fresh 
pair  of  horses ;  and  if  I  should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him 
further  directions.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  Well !  success  attend  you.  In  the  meantime  I'll  go 
amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pretence  of  a  violent  passion  for  my 
cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  MARLOW,/<7//<7«'<f^  by  a  SERVANT. 

Mar.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by  sending  me  so 
valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for  him,  when  he  knows  the 
only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door. — 
Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the  landlady,  as  1  ordered 
you  ?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  owo  hands  ? 

$crv.  Yes,  your  honour. 


ao8  GOLDSMTTfTS  PLAYS. 

Mar.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough;  she  asked  me 
how  I  came  by  it  ?  and  she  said  she  had  a  great  mind  to  make 
me  give  an  account  of  myself.  [Exit  SERVANT. 

Mar.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  They're  safe,  however.  What  an  un- 
accountable set  of  beings  have  we  got  amongst !  This  little  bar- 
maid though  runs  in  my  head  most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the 
absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's  mine,  she  must  be 
mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  Bless  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that  I  intended  to 
prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits 
too! 

Mar.  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow  me  with 
laurels !  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest  fellows  don't  want 
for  success  among  the  women. 

Hast.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what  success  has  your 
honour's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now,  that  it  grows  so  inso- 
lent upon  us  ? 

Mar.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely,  little  thing, 
that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hast.  Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Mar.  She's  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such  fire,  such  motion, 
such  eyes,  such  lips — but,  egad !  she  would  not  let  me  kiss  them 
though. 

Hast.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her  ? 

Mar.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  her  work  above 
stairs,  and  I  am  to  improve  the  pattern. 

Hast.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to  rob  a  woman  of 
her  honour? 

Mar.  Pshaw  !  pshaw  !  We  all  know  the  honour  of  the  barmaid 
of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  rob  her,  take  my  word  for  it ;  there's 
nothing  in  this  house  I  shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hast.  I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

i)/ar.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world 
tiui  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it 


Sff£  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  20* 

n  — -      - 

Hast.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the  casket  I  sent  you  to 
lock  up  ?  It's  in  safety  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken  care  of  it. 
But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door 
a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah  !  numskull  !  I  have  taken  better  precau 
tions  for  you  than  you  did  for  yourself — I  have — 

Hast.  What? 

Mar.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for  you. 

Hast.  To  the  landlady  I 

Mar.  The  landlady. 

Hast.  You  did? 

Mar.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its  forthcoming,  yon 
know. 

Hast.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Mar.  Wasn't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow  that  I  acted  pru- 
dently upon  this  occasion. 

Hast.  (Aside.}  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Mar.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though,  methinks.  Sure 
nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hast.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits  in  all  my  life. 
And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady,  who,  no  doubt,  very  readily 
undertook  the  charge. 

Mar.  Rather  too  readily.  For  she  not  only  kept  the  casket,  but, 
through  her  great  precaution,  was  going  to  keep  the  messenger  too. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hast.  He  !  he  !  he  !    They're  safe,  however  ? 

Mar.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hast.  (Aside.}  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are  at  an  end,  and 
we  must  set  off  without  it.  (To  him.}  Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you 
to  your  meditations  on  the  pretty  barmaid,  and — he  !  he  !  he  ! — 
may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself,  as  you  have  been  for  me. 

[Exit 

Mar.  Thank  ye,  George :  I  ask  no  more.    Ha  I  ha  i  ha  1 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.     It's  turned  all  topsy- 
••jvants  have  gof  irunk  already.   I'll  bear  it  no 

14 


PZAV& 


imi  yt-t,  from  my  respect  for  his  father,  I'll  be  calm.  (To  him.}  Mr. 
M  .1  low,  your  servant.  I'm  your  very  humble  servant  (Bowing  low.) 

Mar.  Sir,  your  humble  servant  (Aside.)  What's  to  be  the  won- 
der now  ? 

Hard.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir,  that  no  man  alive 
ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your  father's  son,  sir.  I  hope  you 
think  so  ? 

Mar.  I  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want  much  entreaty.  I 
generally  make  my  father's  son  welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hard.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  But  though  I  say 
nothing  of  your  own  conduct,  that  of  your  servants  is  insufferable. 
Their  manner  of  drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this 
house,  I  assure  you. 

Mar.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no  fault  of  mine.  If 
they  don't  drink  as  they  ought,  they  are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them 
not  to  spare  the  cellar.  I  did,  I  assure  you.  (To  the  side-scene.') 
Here,  let  one  of  my  servants  come  up.  (To  him.)  My  positive 
directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they  should  make 
up  for  my  deficiencies  below. 

Hard.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they  do?  I'm 
satisfied  ! 

Mar.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear  from  one  of 
themselves. 

Enter  SERVANT,  drunk. 

Mar.  You,  Jeremy  !  come  forward,  sirrah  !  What  were  my 
orders?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink  freely,  and  call  for  what  you 
thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house  ? 

Hard.  (Aside.)  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honour,  liberty  and  Fleet  Street  for  ever  ! 
Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as  good  as  another  man.  I'll  drink 
for  no  man  before  supper,  sir,  d  -  me  !  Good  liquor  will  sit  upon 
a  good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon  -  hiccup 
upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Mar.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as  drunk  as  he  can 
possibly  be.  I  don't  know  what  you'd  have  more,  unless  you'd  have 
the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer-barrel. 


SffE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  tti 

Hard.  Zounds!  he'll  drive  me  distracted,  if  I  contain  mw  If 
any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow,  sir,  1  have  submitted  to  your  insolence 
for  more  than  four  hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to 
an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that 
you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 

Alar.  Leave  your  house  !• Sure  you  jest,  my  good  friend  ! 

What  !  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to  please  you  ! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me ;  so  I  desire  you'll 
leave  my  house. 

Mar.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious?  at  this  time  of  night,  and 
such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean  to  banter  me. 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious !  and  now  that  my  passions  are 
roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine,  sir  ;  this  house  is  mine,  and  I 
command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Mar.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I  shan't  stir  a  step, 
I  assure  you.  (In  a  serious  tone.}  This  your  house,  fellow!  It's  my 
house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What 
right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir  ?  I  never  met  with 
such  impudence,  curse  me ;  never  in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hard.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did.  To  come  to  my  house, 
to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult 
the  family,  to  order  his  servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me, 
"  This  house  is  mine,  sir."  By  all  that's  impudent  it  makes  me 
laugh.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Pray,  sir  (bantering),  as  you  take  the  house, 
what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture?  There's  a  pair 
of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there's  a  fire-screen,  and  here's  a  pair  of 
brazen-nosed  bellows  ;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to  them. 

Afar.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir;  bring  me  your  bill,  and  let's  make 
no  more  words  about  it. 

Hard.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What  think  you  of  the 
''  Rake's  Progress  "  for  your  own  apartment? 

Mar.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say ;  and  I'll  leave  you  and  your  in- 
fe<-nal  house  directly. 

ffard.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table  that  you  may  see  youi 
own  face  in. 

Mar.  My  bill,  I  say. 

14— a 


«t2  QOLDSMITtfS  PLA  VS. 


Hard.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your  own  particulai 
slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Mar.  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let's  hear  no  more 
on't. 

Hard.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your  father's  letter  to  me, 
I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred  modest  man  as  a  visitor  here, 
but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully ;  but  he 
will  be  down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it.  [Exit. 

Mar.  How's  this  ?  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken  the  house.  Every- 
thing looks  like  an  inn  ;  the  servants  cry  "  Coming  ;"  the  atten- 
dance is  awkward  ;  the  barmaid,  too,  to  attend  us.  But  she's 
here,  and  will  further  inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word 
with  you. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Miss  Hard.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  (Aside.)  I 
believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his  mistake.  But  it's  too  soon  quite 
to  undeceive  him. 

Mar.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question.  What  are  you,  and 
what  may  your  business  in  this  house  be  ? 

Miss  Hard.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Mar.  What,  a  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  appointed  to  keep  the 
keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing  in  my  power  to  give 
them. 

Mar.  That  is,  you  act  as  barmaid  of  this  inn. 

Miss  Hard.  Inn  !     O  la what  brought  that  in  your  head  r 

One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county  keep  an  inn — Ha !  ha  !  ha  \ 
• — old  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  an  inn  ! 

Mar.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  1  Is  this  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house, 
child? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.    Whose  else  should  it  be  ? 

Mar.  So  then,  all's  out,  and  I  have  been  damnably  imposed  on. 
Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I  shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole 
town.  I  shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricatura  in  all  the  print-shops.  The 
Dullissimo- Maccaroni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all  others  for  an 
inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend  for  an  innkeeper  I  What  a  swagger 


SJ7&  STOOPS  TO  COKQUER. 


ing  puppy  must  he  take  me  for  ?  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  my- 
self! There,  again,  may  1  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  barmaid. 

Miss  Hard.  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  I'm  sure  there's  nothing  in  my 
behaviour  to  put  me  upon  a  level  with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Mar.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in  for  a  list  of 
blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a  subscriber.  My  stu- 
pidity saw  everything  the  wrong  way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity 
for  assurance,  and  your  simplicity  for  allurement  But  it's  over  — 
This  house  I  no  more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to  disoblige  you. 
I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront  any  gentleman  who  has  been 
so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should 
be  sorry  (pretending  to  cry)  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my  account 
I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people  said  any  thing  amiss,  since  I  have 
no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  By  Heaven  !  she  weeps.  This  is  the  first  mark 
of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest  woman,  and  it  touches  me. 
(To  her.)  Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl  :  you  are  the  only  part  of  the 
family  I  leave  with  reluctance.  But  to  be  plain  with  you,  the 
difference  of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  makes  an  honour- 
able connection  impossible  ;  and  I  can  never  harbour  a  thought  of 
seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honour,  of  bringing  ruin  upon 
one  whose  only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  Generous  man  !  I  now  begin  to  admire  him. 
(To  him.)  But  I  am  sure  my  family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's, 
and  though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented 
mind  ;  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad  to 
want  fortune. 

Mar.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance  from  one,  that,  if 
I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give  it  all  to. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me,  so  that  if  I  stay, 
I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold  effort  and  leave  her.  (To 
her.)  Your  partiality  in  my  favour,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sen- 
sibly i  and  were  I  to  live  for  mysalf  alone,  I  could  easily  fas.  my 


tt4  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

choice.  But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much 
to  the  authority  of  a  father  j  so  that — I  can  scarcely  speak  it — it 
affects  me — Fare-well  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till  now.    He  shall  not 

go,  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain  him.     I'll  still  preserve  the 

character  in  which  I  stooped  to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my  papa, 

who  perhaps  may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next  time.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels  again,  that's  a  sure  thing  ; 
but  she  believes  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Nev.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't  forsake  us  in  this 
distress  ?  If  she  in  the  least  suspects  that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall 
certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent  to  my  Aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten 
times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  d— d  bad  things. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a  pair  of  horses  that  will  fly 
like  Whistle-jacket ;  and  I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted 
you  nicely  before  her  face.  Here  she  comes,  we  must  court  a  bit 
or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  us.  (They  retire  and  seem 
to  fondle.) 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to  be  sure.  But  my 
son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy, 
however,  till  they  are  fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own 
fortune.  But  what  do  I  see  ?  fondling  together,  as  I'm  alive.  I 
never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah  !  have  I  caught  you,  my 
pretty  doves  ?  What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances  and  broken 
murmurs  ?  Ah  ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little  now  and  then 
to  be  sure.  But  there's  no  love  lost  between  us. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the  flame,  only  to 
make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Nev.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us  more  of  his  company 
at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave  us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us, 
Cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 


Sff&  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Tony.  Oh!  it's  a  pretty  cieaiurc.  No,  I'd  sooner  leave  my  horse 
in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you  smile  upon  one  so.  Your 
t.augh  makes  you  so  becoming. 

Miss  Nev.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help  admiring  that 
natural  humour,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red,  thoughtless  (Jotting  his 
check)  ah  !  it's  a  bold  face. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pretty  innocence  ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  Cousin  Con's  hazel  eyes,  and  her 
pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this  way  and  that  over  the  haspi- 
colls,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he  would  charm  the  bird  from  the  tree,  I  was 
never  so  happy  before.  My  boy  takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  in- 
continently. You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear? 
You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we'll  put  off  the  rest  of  his 
education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 
Enter  DIGGORY. 

Z>/£.  Where's  the  'squire  ?    I  have  got  a  letter  for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.    She  reads  all  my  letters  first. 

Dig.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Dig.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the  letter  itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though  (turning  the  letter  and  gazing 
on  it}. 

Miss  Nev.  (Aside.}  Undone  !  undone  !  A  letter  to  him  front 
Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt  sees  it,  we  are  ruined  foi 
ever.  I'll  keep  her  employed  a  little  if  I  can.  (To  MRS.  HARI> 
CASTLE.)  But  I  have  not  told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smar: 
answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlmy.  We  so  laughed — You  must  know 
madam — This  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.  (They  confer  ; 

Tony.  (Still  gazing.}  A  d d  cramp  piece  of  penmanship,  a- 

ever  1  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your  print  hand  very  well.  Bf 
here  there  are  such  handles,  and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one  can 
scarce  know  the  head  from  the  tail  "  To  Anthony  Lumpkin 
Esquire."  It's  very  odd  I  can  read  the  outside  of  my  letters,  wht-it- 
«ny  own  name  is  well  enough.  But  when  I  come  to  open  it,  it's  all 


PLAYS. 


buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard  ;  for  the  inside  of  the  letter  ii 

always  the  cream  of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Very  well,  very  well.  And  so,  my 
son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher. 

Miss  Nev.  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  hear  the  rest,  madam.  A 
little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear  us.  You'll  hear  how  he  piuzled 
him  again. 

Mrs  Hard.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now  himself,  me  thinks. 

Tony.  (Still  gazing.}  A  d d  up  and  down  hand,  as  if  it  was 

disguised  in  liquor.  (Reading.)  "Dear  Sir," — Ay  that's  that.  Then 
there's  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard, 
or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  cannot  tell. 

Mrs.  Hard.  What's  that,  my  dear  ?  can  I  give  you  any  assist- 
ance ? 

Miss  Nev.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it  Nobody  reads  a  cramp 
hand  better  than  I  (Twitching  the  letter  from  him).  Do  you.  know 
who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger  the  feeder. 

Miss  Nev.  Ay,  so  it  is  (pretending  to  read).  Dear  'Squire,  hoping 
that  you're  in  health,  as  I  am  at  present  The  gentlemen  of  the 
Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  the  Goose-green  quite 
out  of  feather.  The  odds — um — odd  battle — um — long  fighting 
— um — here,  here,  it's  all  about  cocks  and  fighting ;  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence ;  here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up.  (Thrusting  the  crumbled  letter 
upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  consequence  in  the 
world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother, 
do  you  make  it  out  Of  no  consequence  !  (Giving  MRS.  HARD- 
CASTLE  the  letter.) 

Mrs.  Hard.  How's  this  \  (reads)  "  Dear  'Squire,  I'm  now  wait- 
ing for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  post-chaise  and  pair,  at  the  boftom  of 
the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses  yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey. 
I  expect  you'll  assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised. 
Despatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag  (ay,  the  hag),  your  mother,  will 
otherwise  suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings."  Grant  me  patience  1  I 
shall  run  distracted  !  My  rage  chokes  me. 


SHE  STOt.fS  TO  CONQUER.  217 

Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend  your  resentment  for  a 
few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me  any  impertinence,  or  sinister 
design  that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Courtesying  very  low.)  Fine  spoken,  madam  ;  you 
are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink 
of  courtesy  and  circumspection,  madam.  (Changing  her  tone.)  And 
you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep 
your  mouth  shut :  were  you,  too,  joined  against  me  ?  But  I'll  de- 
feat all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam,  since  you 
have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would  be  cruel  to  dis- 
appoint them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of  running  away  with 
your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off  with  me.  Your 
old  Aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you  secure,  I'll  warrant  me.  You 
too,  sir,  may  mount  your  horse,  and  guard  us  on  the  way.  Here, 
Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory  1  I'll  show  you  that  I  wish  you  better 
than  you  do  yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Nev.  What  better  could  be  expected  from  being  con- 
nected with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the  nods  and  signs  I 
made  him  ? 

lony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  cleverness,  and  not 
my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business.  You  were  so  nice  and  so 
busy  with  your  Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens,  that  I  thought  you 
could  never  be  making  believe. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant  that  you  have  shown  my 
letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well  done,  young  gentleman? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there,  who  betrayed  you  ? 
Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among  you.  Rendered 
contemptible,  driven  into  ill  manners,  despised,  insulted,  laughed  at 

Tony.  Here's  another.  W«  shall  have  all  Bedlam  broke  loose 
presently, 


2i8  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Miss  Nev.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to  whom  we  all  owe 
every  obligation. 

Mat.  What  can  I  say  to  him?  a  mere  boy,  an  idiot,  whose 
ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hast.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would  but  disgrace 
correction. 

Miss  Nev.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough  to  make  him- 
self merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hast.  An  insensible  cub. 

Mar.   Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw  !  I'll  fight  you  both  one  after  the  other with 

baskets. 

Mar.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment.  But  your  conduct, 
Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation.  You  knew  of  my  mistakes, 
yet  would  not  undeceive  me. 

Hast.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disappointments,  is  this 
a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not  friendly,  Mn  Marlow. 

Mar.  But,  Sir — 

Miss  Nev.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your  mistake,  till  it 
aras  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  Be  pacified. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready  immediately,  madam 
The  horses  are  putting  to.  Your  hat  and  things  are  in  the  next 
room.  We  are  to  go  thirty  miles  before  morning.  \Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Nev.  Well,  well,  I'll  come  presently. 

Mar.  (To  HASTINGS.)  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to  assist  in  render- 
ing me  ridiculous?  To  hang  me  out  for  the  scorn  of  all  my  ac 
quaintance?  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hast.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon  thru  subject,  to 
deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the  care  of  another,  sir  ? 

Miss  Nev.  Mr.  Hastings!  Mr.  Marlow!  Why  will  you  increase 
my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute?  I  implore,  I  entreat 

you 

Enter  SERVANT. 

§ery.  Vour  cloak,  madam.     My  mistress  is  impatient 

Evit  Servant, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  219 

Miss  Ncv.  I  come.  Pray  be  pacified  If  I  leave  you  thus,  I 
shall  die  with  apprehension. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Strv.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The  horses  are 
waiting.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Ncv.  O,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew  what  a  scene  of  con 
straint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I  am  sure  it  would  convert 
your  resentment  into  pity. 

Mar.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions  that  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  Forgive  me,  madam.  George,  forgive  me. 
You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hast.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only  excuse. 

Miss  Nev.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have  that  esteem  for 
me  that  I  think,  that  1  am  sure  you  have,  your  constancy  for  three 
years  will  but  increase  the  happiness  of  our  future  connection. 
If 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Within.}  Miss  Neville.  Constance,  why  Con- 
stance, I  say. 

Miss  Nev.  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy,  remember,  constancy 
Is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hast.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this  ?  To  be  so  near 
happiness,  and  such  happiness! 

Mar.  (To  Tony.}  You  see  now,  young  gentleman,  the  effects  of 
your  folly.     What  might  be  amusement  to  you  is  here  disappoint 
.nent,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  (From  a  reverie.)  Ecod  !  I  have  hit  it :  it's  here.  Your 
hands.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky.  My  boots  there,  ho ! 
— Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  ;  and  if 
you  don't  find  Tony  Lumpkin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than 
you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet 
Bouncer  into  the  bargain.  Come  along.  My  boo;s,  ho  ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT.  V. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  SERVANT. 
Hast.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville  drive  off,  you  fay? 


•20  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 


Serv.  Yes,  your  honour.  They  went  off  in  a  post-coach,  and 
the  young  'squire  went  on  horseback.  They're  thirty  miles  off  by 
this  time. 

Hast.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Sen>.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived. — He  and  the  old 
gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laughing  at  Mr.  Marlow's  mis- 
take this  half  hour.  They  are  coming  this  way. 

hast.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.     So  now  to   my  fruitless 
appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.    This  is  about  the  • 
time.  [Exit. 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  The  peremptory  tone  in  which  he  sent 
forth  his  sublime  commands! 

Sir  Char.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose  he  treated  all 
your  advances. 

Hard.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something  in  me  above  a 
common  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Char.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  %n  uncommon 
innkeeper — ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of  anything  but 
joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  our  families  will  make 
our  personal  friendships  hereditary;  and  though  my  daughter's 
fortune  is  but  small — 

Sir  Char.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to  me?  Mv 
SOD  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  already,  and  can 
want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl  to  share  his  happiness 
and  increase  it.  If  they  like  each  other,  as  you  say  they  do — 

Hard.  If,  man  1  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  other.  My 
daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Char.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves,  you  know. 

Hard.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest  manner  my- 
self; and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of  your  i/s,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  MARLOW 

• 

Mar.  I  come,  sir,  once  more  to  ask  pardon  for  my  strange 
conduct.  I  can  scares  reflect  on  my  insolence  without  confusion. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hard.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too  gravely.  An  houi 
or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter  will  set  all  to  rights  again. 
She'll  never  like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Mar.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hard.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Marlow  ;  if  I  am  not 
deceived,  you  have  something  more  than  approbation  thereabouts. 
ifou  take  me  ? 

Mar.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 

Hard.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and  know  what's  what  as 
well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I  know  what  has  passed  between 
you  ;  but  mum. 

Mar.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  between  us  but  the  most 
profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most  distant  reserve  on  hers 
Vou  don't  think,  sir,  that  my  impudence  has  been  passed  upon  all 
the  rest  of  the  family  ? 

Hard.  Impudence  !  No,  I  don't  say  that  —  not  quite  impudence 
—though  girls  like  to  be  played  with  and  rumpled  a  little  too  some- 
times. But  she  has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Mar.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hard.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place  well  enough.  But 
this  is  over-acting,  young  gentleman.  You  may  be  open.  Your 
father  and  I  will  like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Mar.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever  — 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you  ;  and  as  I'm  sure  you 
like  her  — 

Mar.  Dear  sir  —  I  protest,  sir  — 

Hard.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  Coined  as  fast  as 
the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Mar.  But  hear  me,  sir  — 

Hard.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  admire  it  ;  every 
moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief,  so  — 

Mar.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  that's  just  and  true, 
I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest  mark  of  my  attach- 
ment, or  even  the  most  distant  hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection. 
We  had  but  one  interview,  and  that  was  formal,  modest,  'and  un- 
interesting. 


822  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Hard.  (Aside.)  This  fellow's  formal,  modest  impudence  is 
beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Char.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  or  made  any  pro- 
testations ? 

Mar.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in  obedience  to 
your  commands  ;  I  saw  the  lady  without  emotion,  and  parted 
without  reluctance. — I  hope  you'll  exact  no  further  proofs  of  my 
duty,  nor  prevent  me  from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so 
many  mortifications.  [Exit. 

Sir  Char.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity  with  which  he 
parted. 

Hard.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate  intrepidity  of  his 
assurance. 

Sir  Char,  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour  upon  his  truth. 

Hard.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would  stake  my  happi- 
ness upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us  sincerely  and 
without  reserve  :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made  you  any  profession  of 
love  or  affection  ? 

Miss  Hard.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir  1  But  since  you 
require  unreserved  sincerity,  I  think  he  has. 

Hard.  (To  SIR  CHARLES.)  You  see. 

Sir  Char.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my  son  had  more 
than  one  interview? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hard.  (To  SIR  CHARLES).  You  see. 

Sir  Char.  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment  ? 

Miss  Hard.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Char.  Did  he  talk  of  love  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Char.  Amazing !    And  all  this  formally? 

Miss  Hard.  Formally. 

Hard.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

§ir  Char.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  COVQUER.  423 

Miss  Hard.  As  most  professed  admirers  do :  said  some  civil 
things  of  my  face ;  talked  much  of  his  want  of  merit,  and  the 
greatness  of  mine;  mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy 
speech,  and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Char.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced  indeed.  I  know  his 
conversation  among  women  to  be  modest  and  submissive.  This 
forward,  canting,  ranting  manner  by  no  means  describes  him ;  and, 
I  am  confident,  he  never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  convince  you  to  your 
face  of  my  sincerity  ?  If  you  and  my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour, 
will  place  yourselves  behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare 
his  passion  to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Char.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you  describe,  all 
my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I  describe — I  fear 
my  happiness  must  never  have  a  beginning.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  changes  to  the  back  of  the  Garden. 
Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a  fellow  who  pro- 
bably takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me.  He  never  intended  to  be 
punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do  I  see  ?  It  is  he  1  and 
perhaps  with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  TONY,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hast.  My  honest  'squire  1  I  now  find  you  a  man  of  your  word. 
This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you  have  in  the 
world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding  by  night,  by-the-by,  is 
cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook  me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a 
stage-coach. 

Hast.  But  how  ?  where  did  you  leave  your  fellow-travellers  ? 
Are  they  in  safety  ?  Are  they  housed  ? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a  half  is  no  such 
bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have  smoked  for  it :  rabbit  me,  but 
I'd  rather  ride  'orty  miles  after  a  fox  than  ten  with  such  varmint. 

Hast.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  P  I  die  «nth  \^ 
patience. 


124  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Tony.  Left  them !  Why,  where  should  I  leave  them  but  where 
I  found  them  ? 

Hast.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goes  round  the  house, 
and  round  the  house,  and  never  touches  the  house  ? 

Hast.   I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mun.  I  have  led  them  astray.  By  jingo, 
there's  not  a  pond  or  a  slough  within  five  miles  of  the  place  but 
they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hast.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  I  understand  :  you  took  them  in  a  round, 
while  they  supposed  themselves  going  forward,  and  so  you  have 
at  last  brought  them  home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down  Feather-bed 
Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. — I  then  rattled  them 
crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down  Hill. — I  then  introduced 
them  to  the  gibbett  on  Heavy-tree  Heath  :  and  from  that,  with  a 
circumbendibus,  I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hast.  But  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Tony.  No,  no,  only  mother  is  confoundedly  frightened.  She 
thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She's  sick  of  the  journey  ;  and  the 
cattle  can  scarcely  crawl.  So  if  your  own  horses  be  ready,  you 
may  whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no  soul  here 
can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful ! 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble  'squire.     Just  now  it  was 

all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through.     D n  your  way  of  fighting, 

I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country  we  kiss 
and  be  friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me  through  then  I  should 
be  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hast.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to  relieve  Miss 
Neville :  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed,  I  promise  to  take 
care  of  the  young  one. 

[Exit  HASTINGS. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Vanish  !  She's  got 
Crwoa  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like  a  mermaid. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Enter  Mrs.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed  !  Shook  !  Battered  to  death  ! 
I  shall  never  survive  it.  That  last  jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the 
quickset  hedge,  has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own  fault.  You  would 
be  for  running  away  by  night,  without  knowing  one  inch  of  the 
way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I  never  met  so 
many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey.  Drenched  in  the  mud, 
overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly, 
and  at  last  to  lose  our  way.  Whereabout  do  you  think  we  are, 
Tony? 

Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common, 
about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O  lud  !  O  lud  !  The  most  notorious  spot  in  all 
the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery  to  make  a  complete  night 
on'L 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid.     Two  of  the 
five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the  other  three  may  not  find 
us.     Don't  be  afraid.  —  Is  that  a  man  that's  galloping  behind  us  ? 
No,  it's  only  a  tree.  —  Don't  be  afraid. 
Mrs.  Hard.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 
Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  moving  behind 
the  thicket  ? 
Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  death  ! 

Tony.  No  :  it's  only  a  cow.     Don't  be  afraid,  mamma  ;  don't 
be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man  coming  towards 
us.  Ah  !  I'm  sure  on't.  If  he  perceives  us  we  are  undone. 

Tony.    (Aside.')  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  unlucky,   come  to 
take  one  of  his  night  walks.     (To  her.}  Ah  !  it's  a  highwayman, 
with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.     A  d  -  d  ill-looking  fellow. 
Mrs.  Hard.  Good  Heaven  defend  us  !     He  approaches. 
Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourseli  in  that  thicket,  and  leave  me  to 
manage  him.     If  there  be  any  danger,  I'll  cough  and  cry  huem, 


ta6  GOLDSMITHS  PLAYS, 

When  I  cough,  be  sure  to  keep  close.     (MRS.  HARDCASTLE  hides 
behind  a  tree  in  the  back  Scene.) 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people  in  want  of 
help. — Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you?  I  did  not  expect  you  so  soon 
back.  Are  your  mother  and  her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  Aunt  Pedigree's.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind.}  Ah,  death !  I  find  there's  danger. 

Hard.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours ;  sure  that's  too  much,  my 
youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short  journeys,  as 
they  say.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind?)  Sure  he'll  do  the  dear  boy  no  harm. 

Hard.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here;  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was  saying  that 
forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good  going.  Hem.  As  to  be 
sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the 
air.  We'll  go  in,  if  you  please.  Hem. 

Hard.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not  answer  your- 
self. I'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and  am  resolved  Raising  his 
voice)  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind.)  Oh  !  he's  coming  to  find  me  out. 
Oh! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  ?  Hem.  I'll  lay 
down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem — I'll  tell  you  all,  sir.  (Detaining 
him.) 

Hard.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I  insist  on  seeing. 
It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Running  forward  from  behind.}  O  lud !  he'll 
murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling  Here,  good  gentleman,  whet 
your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my  money,  my  life,  but  spare  that 
young  gentleman  ;  spare  my  child,  if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hard.  My  wife,  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From  whence  can  she 
come?  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Kneeling.)  Take    compassion   on    us,   good   Mr, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our  watches,  all  we  have,  but 
spare  our  lives.  We  will  never  bring  you  to  justice  ;  indeed  we 
won't,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hard.  I  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her  senses.  What,  Dorothy, 
don't  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive  !  My  fears  blinded 
me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have  expected  to  meet  you  here  in 
this  frightful  place,  so  far  from  home  ?  What  has  brought  you  to 
follow  us  ? 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your  wits?  So  far 
from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty  yards  of  your  own  door  ! 
(To  him.}  This  is  one  of  your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue  you! 
(To  her.)  Don't  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mulberry-tree?  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse-pond  as  long  as  I 
live  ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it.  (To  TONY.)  And  is  it  to  you, 
you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this  1  I'll  teach  you  to  abuse  your 
mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have  spoiled  me, 
and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

\Folloivs  him  off  the  stage.     Exit. 

Hard.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply.  \Exit. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Hast.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  deliberate  thus  ?  If  we 
delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  for  ever.  Pluck  up  a  little  resolution, 
and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Nev.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so  sunk  with  the 
agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am  unable  to  face  any  new 
danger.  Two  or  tl^ee  years'  patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with 
happiness. 

Hast.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  inconstancy.  Let  us 
fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us  date  our  happiness  from  this  very 
moment.  Perish  fortune  !  Love  and  content  will  increase  what 
we  possess  beyond  a  monarch's  revenue.  Let  me  prevail  ! 

Mia  NCV.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.     Prudence  once  more  comes 

15—  a 


**8  GCLDSMTTWS  PLAYS. 

to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In  the  moment  of  pas- 
sion, fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting 
repentance.  I'm  resolved  to  apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion 
and  justice  for  redress. 

Hast.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not  the  power  to 
relieve  you. 

Miss  Ntv.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that  I  am  resolved 
to  rely. 

Hast.  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you  persist,  I  must  reluct- 
antly obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  changes. 
Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Sir  Char.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what  you  say  appears, 
I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If  what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall 
then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation  ;  and  to  show  I 
merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  directed,  you  shall  hear  his 
explicit  declaration.  But  he  comes. 

Sir  Char.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the  appointment. 

[Exit  SIR  CHARLES. 
Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once  more  to 
take  leave ;  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I  feel  in 
the  separation. 

Miss  Hard.  (In  her  own  natural  manner.')  I  believe  these 
sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir,  which  you  can  so  easily  re- 
move. A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness, 
by  showing  the  little  value  of  what  you  now  think  proper  to  regret. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  This  girl  every  moment  improves  upon  me.  (To 
her.)  It  must  not  be,  madam,  I  have  already  trifled  too  long  with 
my  heart.  My  very  pride  begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The 
disparity  of  education  and  r 

rcrtune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the 

contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing 
can  restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Mtss  Hard.  Then  go,  sir  :  I'll  urge  nothing  more  to  detain  you. 
1  hough  my  family  be  as  good  as  hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  229 

my  education.  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages 
wit'iout  cquai  iltluence  ?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the 
slight  approbation  of  imputed  merit  ;  I  must  have  only  the 
mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims  are  fixed 
on  tort une. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE  and  SIR  CHARLES,  from  behind. 

.*>/>  Char.   Here,  behind  this  screen. 

l/n></  Ay,  ay;  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my  Kate  covers 
him  with  conlusion  at  last. 

J/.-v  By  heavens '  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my  smallest 
consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my  eye;  for  who  could 
see  that  without  emotion  ?  But  every  moment  that  I  converse 
with  you,  steals  in  some  new  grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and 
gives  it  stronger  expression.  What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness, 
now  appears  refined  simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance, 
now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence  and  con- 
scious virtue. 

6V>  Char.    What  can  it  mean?     He  amazes  me  ! 

tLird.   I  told  you  how  it  would  be.      Hush  ! 

Mar.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and  I  have  too 
good  an  opinion  of  my  lather's  discernment,  when  he  sees  you, 
to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot  detain  you. 
Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connection  in  which  there  is  the 
smallest  room  for  repentance?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the 
mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you  with  confusion  ? 
Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  happiness  which  was  ac- 
quired by  lessening  yours  ? 

Mar.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness  but  what's 
in  your  power  to  grant  me  !  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel  repentance  but 
in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before.  I  will  stay  even  contrary 
to  your  wishes  ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I  will 
make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past 
conduct. 

A/iss  Hard.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist.  As  our  acquaint' 
ance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indifference.  I  might  have  given  an 


zyt  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

hour  of  two  to  levity;  but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I 
could  ever  submit  to  a  connection  where  I  must  appear  mercenary, 
and  you  imprudent  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  con- 
fident addresses  of  a  secure  admirer? 

Mar.  (Kneeling.}  Does  this  look  like  security?  Does  this  look 
like  confidence?  No,  madam,  every  moment  that  shows  me  your 
merit,  only  serves  to  increase  ray  diffidence  and  confusion.  Here 
let  me  continue 

Sir  Char,  I  can  hold  it  no  longer. — Charles,  Charles,  how  hast 
thou  deceived  me  !  Is  this  your  indifference,  your  uninteresting 
conveisation  ? 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt;  your  formal  interview  !  What  have 
you  to  say  now? 

Mar.  That  I'm  all  amazement !     What  can  it  mean  ? 

Hard.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay  things  at  pleasure, 
That  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private,  and  deny  it  in  public; 
that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 

Mar.  Daughter! — This  lady  your  daughter? 

Hard.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter :  my  Kate ;  whose  else 
should  she  be? 

Mar.  Oh,  the  devil  f 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall  squinting  lady  you 
were  pleased  to  take  me  for  (courtesying) ;  she  that  you  addressed 
as  the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold 
forward  agreeable  Rattle  of  the  ladies'  club.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mar.  Zounds  !  there's  no  bearing  this ;  it's  worse  than  death  ! 

Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir,  will  you  give  us 
leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  faltering  gentleman,  with  looks  on 
the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy ;  or 
the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the  morning  ?  Ha  1 
ha!  ha! 

Afar.  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head  f  I  never  attempted  to  be 
impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not  taken  down  !  I  must  be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall  not.  I  see  it 
was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  ana  rejoiced  to  find  it  You  shall  not 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  231 

stir,  I  tell  you.     I  know  she'll  forgive  you.     Won't  you  forgive 
him,  Kate  ?    We'll  all  forgive  you.     Take  courage,  man. 

[  They  retire,  she  tormenting  him,  to  the  back  Scene. 
Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  TONY. 

Mrs.  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.     Let  them  go,  I  care  not 

Hard.   Who  gone? 

Mrs.  Hard-  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman,  Mr.  Hastings, 
from  town.  He  who  came  down  with  our  modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Char.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings  ?  As  worthy  a  fellow 
as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hard.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm  proud  of  the  con- 
nection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady,  he  has  not 
taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in  this  family  to  console  us  for 
her  loss. 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mercenary? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hard.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of  age,  refuses  to  marry 
his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she  has  not  thought 
proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Aside.)  What,  returned  so  soon !  I  begin  not 
to  like  it. 

Hast.  (To  HARDCASTLE.)  For  my  late  attempt  to  fly  off  with 
your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my  punishment.  We  are 
now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your  justice  to  your  humanity. 
By  her  father's  consent  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our 
passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Nei>.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to  stoop  to 
dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour  of  levity,  I  was 
ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice.  But  I'm 
now  recovered  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  from  your  tenderness 
what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pshaw,  pshaw  !  this  is  all  but  the  whining  end  oft 
modern  novel. 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


Hard  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're  come  back  to  reclaim 
their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's 
hand  whom  I  now  offer  you  ? 

7^ony.  What  signifies  my  refusing?  You  know  I  can't  refuse 
her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hard.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy,  was  likely  to 
conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred  with  your  mother's 
desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong 
use,  I  must  now  declare  you  have  been  of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.   Of  age  !     Am  I  of  age,  father? 

Hard.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my  liberty. 
(Taking  Miss  NKVILLE'S  hand.}  Witness  all  men  by  these  pre- 
sents, that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  esquire,  of  BLANK  place,  retuse 
you,  Consiuiitia  Neville,  spinster,  of  no  place  at  all,  for  my  true 
and  lawful  wife.  So  Constance  Neville  may  marry  whom  she 
pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Char.   Oh,  brave  'squire  .' 

Hast.   My  worthy  tnend  ! 

Mrs.  Haid.   My  undutiful  offspring! 

Mar.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  1  give  you  joy  sincerely.  And 
could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here  to  be  less  arbitrary.  I 
should  be  the  happiest  man  alive  if  you  would  return  me  the 
favour. 

Hast.  (To  Miss  HARDCASTLE.)  Come,  madam,  you  are  now 
driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your  contrivances.  I  know 
you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must  and  sh.ill 
have  him. 

Hard.  (Joining  their  hands.')  An  '  I  say  so  too.  And,  Mr. 
Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't 
believe  you'll  ever  repent  your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To- 
morrow we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us.  ;md 
the  mistakes  of  the  night  shall  be  crowned  with  a  merry  morning. 
So,  boy,  take  her  ;  and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistre.->s, 
my  wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife. 

\Exeuni  omnes. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION*!.  USIUBV  r., 


A     000114530     9 


